NOTE 

This  book  is  published  in  England  under  the 
title  of  Valerie  Upton. 


OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 


BY 
ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDGWICK 

(Mrs.  Basil  de  S61incourt) 

Author  of '  The  Little  French  Girl, '  '  Franklin  Winslow  Kane,' 
'  Tante, '  etc. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
$vess  Cambrfojje 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Vl)t  Bfbtrette  prt«8 

CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 


2132685 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 


HREE  people  were  sitting  in  a  small 
drawing-room,  the  windows  of  which 
looked  out  upon  a  wintry  Boston  street. 
It  was  a  room  rather  empty  and  un- 
decorated,  but  the  idea  of  austerity  was 
banished  by  a  temperature  so  nearly  tropical.  There 
were  rows  of  books  on  white  shelves,  a  pale  Dona- 
tello  cast  on  the  wall,  and  two  fine  bronze  vases  filled 
with  roses  on  the  mantelpiece.  Over  the  roses  hung 
a  portrait  in  oils,  very  sleek  and  very  accurate,  of 
a  commanding  old  gentleman  in  uniform,  painted 
by  a  well-known  German  painter,  and  all  about  the 
room  were  photographs  of  young  women,  most  of 
them  young  mothers,  with  smooth  heads  and  earnest 
faces,  holding  babies.  Outside,  the  snow  was  heaped 
high  along  the  pavements  and  thickly  ridged  the 
roofs  and  lintels.  After  the  blizzard  the  sun  was 
shining  and  all  the  white  glittered.  The  national 
colors,  to  a  patriotic  imagination,  were  pleasingly 

3 


4  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

represented  by  the  red,  white  and  blue  of  the  brick 
houses,  the  snow,  and  the  vivid  sky  above. 

The  three  people  who  talked,  with  many  intimate 
pauses  of  silence,  were  all  Bostonians,  though  of 
widely  different  types.  The  hostess,  sitting  in  an 
easy  chair  and  engaged  with  some  sewing,  was  a 
girl  of  about  twenty-six.  She  wore  a  brown  skirt  of 
an  ugly  cut  and  shade  and  a  white  silk  shirt, 
adorned  with  a  high  linen  collar,  a  brown  tie  and  an 
old-fashioned  gold  watch-chain.  Her  forehead  was 
too  large,  her  nose  too  short;  but  her  lips  were  full 
and  pleasant  and  when  she  smiled  she  showed 
charming  teeth.  The  black-rimmed  glasses  she  wore 
emphasized  the  clearness  and  candor  of  her  eyes. 
Her  thick,  fair  hair  was  firmly  fastened  in  a  group 
of  knobs  down  the  back  of  her  head.  There  was  an 
element  of  the  grotesque  in  her  appearance  and  in 
her  careful,  clumsy  movements,  yet,  with  it,  a 
quality  almost  graceful,  that  suggested  homely  and 
wholesome  analogies,— freshly-baked  bread;  fair, 
sweet  linen;  the  safety  and  content  of  evening  fire 
sides.  This  was  Mary  Colton. 

The  girl  who  sat  near  the  window,  her  furs 
thrown  back  from  her  shoulders,  a  huge  muff  dan 
gling  from  her  hand,  was  a  few  years  younger 
and  exceedingly  pretty.  Her  skin  was  unusually 
white,  her  hair  unusually  black,  her  velvety  eyes 
unusually  large  and  dark.  In  her  attitude,  loung 
ing,  graceful,  indifferent,  in  her  delicate  face, 
the  straight,  sulky  brows,  the  coldly  closed  lips,  the 
coldly  observant  eyes,  a  sort  of  permanent  discon 
tent  was  expressed,  as  though  she  could  find,  neither 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  5 

in  herself  nor  in  the  world,  any  adequate  satisfac 
tion.  This  was  Rose  Packer. 

The  other  guest,  sitting  sidewise  on  a  stiff  chair,  his 
hand  hanging  over  the  back,  his  long  legs  crossed, 
was  a  young  man,  graceful,  lean  and  shabby.  He 
was  clean-shaven,  with  brown  skin  and  golden  hair, 
an  unruly  lock  lying  athwart  his  forehead.  His 
face,  intent,  alert,  was  veiled  in  an  indolent  non 
chalance.  He  looked  earnest,  yet  capricious,  staunch, 
yet  sensitive,  and  one  felt  that,  conscious  of  these 
weaknesses,  he  tried  to  master  or  to  hide  them. 

These  three  had  known  one  another  since  child 
hood.  Jack's  family  was  old  and  rich;  Mary's  old 
and  poor;  Rose  Packer's  new  and  of  fantastic 
wealth.  Rose  was  a  young  woman  of  fashion  and 
her  whole  aspect  seemed  to  repudiate  any  closeness 
of  tie  between  herself  and  Mary,  who  passed  her 
time  in  caring  for  General  Colton,  her  invalid  father, 
attending  committees,  and,  as  a  diversion,  going  to 
"sewing-circles"  and  symphony  concerts;  but  she 
was  fonder  of  Mary  than  of  any  one  else  in  the 
world.  Rose,  who  had,  as  it  were,  been  brought 
up  all  over  the  world,  divided  her  time  now  between 
two  continents  and  quaintly  diversified  her  dancing, 
hunting,  yachting  existence  by  the  arduous  study 
of  biology.  Jack,  in  appearance  more  ambiguous 
than  either,  looked  neither  useful  nor  ornamental; 
but,  in  point  of  fact,  he  was  a  much  occupied  per 
son.  He  painted  very  seriously,  was  something  of  a 
scholar  and  devoted  much  of  his  time  and  most  of 
his  large  fortune  to  intricate  benevolences.  His 
shabby  clothes  were  assumed,  like  the  air  of  indo- 


8  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

lence ;  his  wealth  irked  him  and,  full  of  a  democratic 
transcendentalism,  he  longed  to  efface  all  the  signs 
that  separated  him  from  the  average  toiler.  While 
Rose  was  quite  ignorant  of  her  own  country  west 
of  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  Jack  had  wandered  North, 
South,  West.  As  for  Mary,  she  had  hardly  left 
Boston  in  her  life,  except  to  go  to  the  Massachusetts 
coast  in  summer  and  to  pay  a  rare  visit  now  and 
then  to  New  York.  It  was  of  such  a  visit  that  she 
had  been  talking  to  them  and  of  the  friend  who, 
since  her  own  return  home  only  a  few  days  before, 
had  suffered  a  sudden  bereavement  in  the  death  of 
her  father.  Jack  Pennington,  also  a  near  friend  of 
Imogen  Upton's,  had  just  come  from  New  York, 
where  he  had  been  with  her  during  the  mournful 
ceremonies  of  death,  and  Mary  Colton,  after  a  little 
pause,  had  said,  "I  suppose  she  was  very  wonderful 
through  it  all." 

"She  bore  up  very  well,"  said  Jack  Pennington. 
"There  would  never  be  anything  selfish  in  her 
grief." 

"Never.  And  when  one  thinks  what  a  grief  it  is. 
She  is  wonderful, ' '  said  Mary. 

"You  think  every  one  wonderful,  Molly,"  Rose 
Packer  remarked,  not  at  all  aggressively,  but  with 
her  air  of  quiet  ill-temper. 

"Mary's  enthusiasm  has  hit  the  mark  this  time," 
said  Pennington,  casting  a  glance  more  scrutinizing 
than  severe  upon  the  girl. 

''I  really  can't  see  it.  Of  course  Imogen  Upton 
is  pretty— remarkably  pretty— though  I  've  always 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  7 

thought  her  nose  too  small ;  and  she  is  certainly 
clever ;  but  why  should  she  be  called  wonderful  ? ' ' 

"I  think  it  is  her  goodness,  Rose,"  said  Mary, 
with  an  air  of  gentle  willingness  to  explain.  "It  's 
her  radiant  goodness.  I  know  that  Imogen  has  mas 
tered  philosophies,  literatures,  sciences — in  so  far  as 
a  young  and  very  busy  girl  can  master  them,  and 
that  very  wise  men  are  glad  to  talk  to  her ;  but  it  's 
not  of  that  one  thinks— nor  of  her  great  beauty, 
either.  Both  seem  taken  up,  absorbed  in-that  selfless 
ness,  that  loving-kindness,  that  's  like  a  higher  kind 
of  cleverness — almost  like  a  genius." 

"She  's  not  nearly  so  good  as  you  are,  Molly. 
And  after  all,  what  does  she  do,  anyway  ? ' ' 

Mary  kept  her  look  of  leniency,  as  if  over  the 
half -playful  naughtinesses  of  a  child.  "She  organ 
izes  and  supports  all  sorts  of  charities,  all  sorts  of 
reforms;  she  is  the  wisest,  sweetest  of  hostesses;  she 
takes  care  of  her  brother;  she  took  care  of  her 
father;— she  takes  care  of  anybody  who  is  in  need 
or  unhappy. ' ' 

"Was  Mr.  Upton  so  unhappy?  He  certainly 
looked  gloomy;— I  hardly  knew  him;  Eddy,  how 
ever,  I  do  know,  very  well;  he  is  n't  in  the  least 
unhappy.  He  does  n't  need  help." 

"I  think  we  all  need  help,  dear.  As  for  Mr. 
Upton, — you  know,"  Mary  spoke  very  gravely  now, 
"you  know  about  Mrs.  Upton." 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  what  's  better,  I  know  her 
herself  a  little.  Elle  est  charmeuse." 

1 '  I  have  never  seen  her, ' '  said  Mary,  ' '  but  I  don 't 


8  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

understand  how  you  can  call  a  frivolous  and  heart 
less  woman,  who  practically  deserted  her  husband 
and  children,  channelise;— but  perhaps  that  is  all 
that  one  can  call  her." 

"I  like  frivolous  people,"  said  Rose,  ''and  most 
women  would  have  deserted  Mr.  Upton,  if  what  I  've 
heard  of  him  was  true." 

"What  have  you  heard  of  himr" 

"That  he  was  a  bombastic  prig." 

At  this  Mary's  pale  cheek  colored.  "Try  to  re 
member,  Rose,  that  he  died  only  a  week  ago." 

' '  Oh,  he  may  be  different  now,  of  course. ' ' 

"I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  speak  so,  Rose.  I  did 
know  him.  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  during  this 
last  year.  He  was  a  very  big  person  indeed. ' ' 

"Of  course  I  'm  a  pig  to  talk  like  this,  if  you 
really  liked  him,  Molly." 

But  Mary  was  not  to  be  turned  aside  by  such 
ambiguous  apology.  "You  see,  you  don't  know, 
Rose.  The  pleasure-seeking,  worldly  people  among 
whom  you  live  could  hardly  understand  a  man  like 
Mr.  Upton.  Simply  what  he  did  for  civic  reform,— 
worked  himself  to  death  over  it.  And  his  books  on 
ethics,  politics.  It  is  n't  a  question  of  my  liking 
him.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  of  my  feel 
ing  for  him  in  those  terms.  It  was  reverence,  rather, 
and  gratitude  for  his  being  what  he  was." 

"Well,  dear,  I  do  remember  hearing  men,  and  not 
worldly  men,  as  you  call  them,  either,  say  that  his 
work  for  civic  reform  amounted  to  very  little  and 
that  his  books  were  thin  and  unoriginal.  As  for 


that  community  place  he  founded  at,  where  was  it? 
-Clackville  ?  He  meddled  that  out  of  life. ' ' 

"He  may  have  been  Utopian,  he  may  have  been 
in  some  ways  ineffectual ;  but  he  was  a  good  man,  a 
wonderful,  yesr  Rose,  a  wonderful  man." 

"And  do  you  think  that  Molly  has  hit  the  mark 
in  this,  too?"  Rose  asked,  turning  her  eyes  on  Pen- 
nington.  He  had  been  listening  with  an  air  of  light 
inattention  and  now  he  answered  tersely,  as  if  con 
quering  some  inner  reluctance  by  over-emphasis, 
"Could  n't  abide  him." 

Rose  laughed  out,  though  with  some  surprise  in 
her  triumph;  and  Mary,  redder  than  before,  re 
joined  in  a  low  voice,  "I  did  n't  expect  you,  Jack, 
to  let  personal  tastes  interfere  with  fair  judgment." 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  judging  him,"  said  Jack. 

"But  do  you  feel  with  me,"  said  Rose,  "that  it  's 
no  wonder  that  Mrs.  Upton  left  him." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Pennington  replied,  glad,  evi 
dently,  to  make  clear  his  disagreement.  "I  don't 
know  of  any  reason  that  Mrs.  Upton  had  for  de 
serting  not  only  her  husband  but  her  children." 

"But  have  they  been  left?  Is  n't  it  merely  that 
they  prefer  to  stay  ? ' ' 

"Prefer  to  live  in  their  own  country?  among 
their  own  people ?  Certainly." 

"But  she  spends  part  of  every  year  with  them. 
There  was  never  any  open  breach. ' ' 

"Everybody  knew  that  she  would  not  live  with 
her  husband  and  everybody  knew  why,"  Mary  said. 
"It  has  nearly  broken  Imogen's  heart.  She  left  him 


10  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

because  he  would  n  't  lead  the  kind  of  life  she  wanted 
to  lead— the  kind  of  life  she  leads  in  England— one 
of  mere  pleasure  and  self-indulgent  ease.  She 
has  n 't  the  faintest  conception  of  duty  or  of  patriot 
ism.  She  could  n't  help  her  husband  in  any  way, 
and  she  would  n't  let  him  help  her.  All  she  cares 
for  is  fashion,  admiration  and  pretty  clothes." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,  my  dear !  She  does  n't  think 
one  bit  more  about  her  clothes  than  Imogen  does. 
It  requires  more  thought  to  look  like  a  saint  in 
velvet  than  to  go  to  the  best  dressmaker  and  order 
a  trousseau.  I  wonder  how  long  it  took  Imogen  to 
find  out  that  way  of  doing  her  hair." 

"Rose!— I  must  beg  of  you— I  love  her." 

"But  I  'm  saying  nothing  against  her!" 

"When  I  think  of  what  she  is  suffering  now,  what 
you  say  sounds  cruelly  irreverent.  Jack,  I  know, 
feels  as  I  do." 

"Yes,  he  does,"  said  the  young  man.  He  got  up 
now  and  stood,  very  tall,  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
looking  down  at  Mary.  "I  must  be  off.  I  '11  bring 
you  those  books  to-morrow  afternoon — though  I 
don't  see  much  good  in  your  reading  d'Annunzio." 

"Why,  if  you  do,  Jack?"  said  Mary,  with  some 
wonder.  And  the  degree  of  intimate  equality  in  the 
relations  of  these  young  people  may  be  gaged  by  the 
fact  that  he  appeared  to  receive  her  rejoinder  as 
conclusive. 

"Well,  he  's  interesting,  of  course,  and  if  one 
wants  to  understand  modern  decadence  in  an  all- 
round  way— ' ' 

"I  want  to  understand  everything,"  said  Mary. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  11 

"And  please  bring  your  best  Italian  dictionary 
with  them." 

"Before  you  go,  Jack,"  said  Rose,  "pray  shut  the 
register.  It  's  quite  stifling  in  here." 

' '  Far  too  hot, ' '  said  Jack,  showing  his  impartiality 
of  spirit  by  his  seconding  of  Rose's  complaint,  for 
it  was  evident  she  had  much  displeased  him.  "I  've 
often  told  you,  Mary,  how  bad  it  was  for  you. 
That  's  why  you  are  so  pale. ' ' 

"I  'm  so  sorry.  Have  you  been  feeling  it  much? 
Leave  the  door  into  the  hall  open." 

"And  do  cast  one  glance,  if  only  of  disapproba 
tion,  upon  me,  Jack, ' '  Rose  pleaded  in  mock  distress. 

"You  are  a  very  amusing  child,  Rose,  sometimes," 
was  Pennington's  only  answer. 

"He  's  evidently  very  cross  with  me,"  said  Rose, 
when  he  was  gone.  "While  you  are  not — you  who 
have  every  right  to  be,  angelic  Molly. ' ' 

"I  hope  you  did  n't  realize,  Rose,  how  you  were 
hurting  him." 

"I?"    Rose  opened  wide  eyes.    "How,  pray?" 

"Don't  you  know  that  he  is  devoted  to  Imogen 
Upton?" 

"Why,  who  is  n't  devoted  to  her,  except  wicked 
me?" 

"Devoted  in  particular— in  love  with  her,  I 
think, ' '  said  Mary. 

Rose's  face  took  on  a  more  acutely  discontented 
look,  after  the  pause  in  which  she  seemed,  though  un- 
repentantly,  to  acquiesce  in  a  conviction  of  inepti 
tude.  "  Really  in  love  with  her  ?" 

"I  think  so;  I  hope  so." 


12  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"How  foolish  of  him,"  said  Rose.  Mary,  at  this, 
rested  a  gaze  so  long  and  so  reproachful  upon  her 
that  the  discontent  gave  way  to  an  affectionate  com 
punction.  "The  truth  is,  Mary,  that  I  'm  jealous; 
I  'm  petty;  I  'm  horrid.  I  don't  like  sharing  you. 
I  like  you  to  like  me  most,  and  not  to  find  other 
people  wonderful." 

"If  you  own  that  you  are  naughty,  Rose,  dear, 
and  that  you  try  hard  to  be  naughtier  than  you 
really  are,  I  can't  be  angry  with  you.  But  it  does 
hurt  me,  for  your  own  sake,  to  see  you— really 
malicious,  dear." 

"Oh,  dear!    Am  I  that?" 

"Really  you  are." 

"Because  I  called  Imogen  Upton  a  saint  in  vel 
vet?— and  like  her  mother  so  much,  much  more?" 

"Yes,  because  of  that— and  all  the  rest.  As  for 
jealousy,  one  does  n't  love  people  more  because  they 
are  wonderful.  One  is  glad  of  them  and  one  longs 
to  share  them.  It  's  one  of  my  dearest  hopes  that 
you  may  come  to  care  for  Imogen  as  I  do— and  as 
Jack  does." 

Rose  listened,  her  head  bent  forward,  her  eyes, 
ambiguous  in  their  half-ironic,  half-tender,  mean 
ing,  on  her  friend;  but  she  only  said,  "I  shall  re 
main  in  love  with  you,  Mary."  She  did  n't  say 
again,  though  she  was  thinking  it,  that  Jack  was 
very  foolish. 


II 


ARLING,  darling  Mother : 

"I  know  too  well  what  you  have 
been  feeling  since  the  cable  reached 
you ;  and  first  of  all  I  want  to  help  you 
to  bear  it  by  telling  you  at  once  that  you 
could  not  have  reached  him  in  time.  You  must  not 
reproach  yourself  for  that. 

"I  am  shattered  by  this  long  day.  Father  died 
early  this  morning,  but  I  must  hold  what  strength 
I  have,  firmly,  for  you,  and  tell  you  all  that  you 
will  want  to  hear.  He  would  have  wished  that ;  you 
know  how  he  felt  about  a  selfish  yielding  to  grief. 

"He  seemed  quite  well  until  the  beginning  of  this 
week— five  days  ago— but  he  was  never  strong;  the 
long  struggle  that  life  must  always  mean  to  those 
who  face  life  as  he  did,  wore  on  him  more  and 
more ;  for  others '  sakes  he  often  assumed  a  buoyancy 
of  manner  that,  I  am  sure,— one  feels  these  things  by 
intuition  of  those  one  loves— often  hid  suffering  and 
intense  weariness.  It  was  just  a  case  of  the  sword 
wearing  out  the  scabbard.  A  case  of,  'Yes,  uphill  to 
the  very  end.'  I  know  that  you  did  not  guess  how 
fragile  the  scabbard  had  become,  and  you  must  not 
reproach  yourself,  darling,  for  that  either.  We  are 

13 


14  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

hardly  masters  of  the  intuitions  that  warn  us  of 
these  things.  Death  teaches  us  so  much,  and,  be 
side  him,  looking  at  his  quiet  face,  so  wonderful  in 
its  peace  and  triumph,  I  have  learned  many  lessons. 
He  has  seemed  to  teach  me,  in  his  silence,  the  gentler, 
deeper  sympathy  with  temperament.  You  could  n't 
help  it,  darling,  I  seem  to  understand  that  more 
and  more.  You  were  n't  at  the  place,  so  to  speak, 
where  he  could  help  you.  Oh,  I  wrant  to  be  so  tender 
with  you,  my  mother,— and  to  help  you  to  wise, 
strong  tenderness  toward  yourself. 

"On  Tuesday  he  worked,  as  usual,  all  morning; 
he  had  thrown  himself  heart  and  soul,  as  you  know, 
into  our  great  fight  with  civic  corruption — what  a 
worker  he  was,  what  a  fighter !  He  was  so  won 
derful  at  lunch,  I  remember.  I  had  my  dear  little 
Mary  Colton  with  me  and  he  held  us  both  spellbound, 
talking,  with  all  his  enthusiasm  and  ardor,  of  poli 
tics,  art,  life  and  the  living  of  life.  Mary  said, 
when  she  left  me  that  day,  that  to  know  him  had 
been  one  of  the  greatest  things  in  her  experience. 
In  the  afternoon  he  went  to  a  committee  meeting  at 
the  Citizens '  Union.  It  was  bitterly  cold  and  though 
I  begged  him  to  be  selfish  for  once  and  take  a  cab, 
he  would  n't — you  remember  his  Spartan  contempt 
of  costly  comforts — and  I  can  see  him  now,  going 
down  the  steps,  smiling,  shaking  his  head,  waving 
his  hand,  and  saying  with  that  half-sad,  half-quiz 
zical  smile  of  his,  '  Plenty  of  people  who  need  bread 
a  good  deal  more  than  I  need  cabs,  little  daughter.' 
So,  in  the  icy  wind,  he  walked  to  the  cable-car,  with 
its  over-heated  atmosphere.  He  got  back  late,  only 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  15 

in  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Several  interesting  men 
came  and  we  had  a  splendid  evening,  really  won 
derful  talk,  constructive  talk,  vitalizing,  inspiring, 
of  the  world  and  the  work  to  be  done  for  it.  I 
noticed  that  father  seemed  flushed,  but  thought  it 
merely  the  interest  of  the  discussion.  He  did  not 
come  down  to  breakfast  next  morning  and  when  I 
went  to  him  I  found  him  very  feverish.  He  con 
fessed  then  that  he  had  caught  a  bad  chill  the  day 
before.  I  sent  for  the  doctor  at  once,  and  for  a  little 
while  had  no  anxiety.  But  the  fever  became  higher 
and  higher  and  that  night  the  doctor  said  that  it  was 
pneumonia. 

"Dearest,  dearest  mother,  these  last  days  are  still 
too  much  with  me  for  me  to  feel  able  to  make  you 
see  them  clearly.  It  is  all  a  tragic  confusion  in  my 
mind.  Everything  that  could  be  done  was  done  to 
save  him.  He  had  nurses  and  consultations— all  the 
aids  of  science  and  love.  I  wired  for  Eddy  at  once, 
and  dear  Jack  Pennington  was  with  me,  too,  so  help 
ful  with  his  deep  sympathy  and  friendship.  I 
needed  help,  mother,  for  it  was  like  having  my  heart 
torn  from  me  to  see  him  go.  He  was  very  calm  and 
brave,  though  I  am  sure  he  knew,  and  once,  when  I 
sat  beside  him,  just  put  out  his  hand  to  mine  and 
said:  'Don't  grieve  overmuch,  little  daughter;  I 
trust  you  to  turn  all  your  sorrow  to  noble  uses. '  He 
spoke  only  once  of  you,  dear  mother,  but  then  it  was 
to  say:  'Tell  her— I  forgive.  Tell  her  not  to  re 
proach  herself.'  And  then— it  was  the  saddest, 
sweetest  summing  up,  and  it  will  comfort  you — 'She 
was  like  a  child.'  At  the  end  he  simply  went — 


16  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

sleeping,  unconscious.  Oh,  mother,  mother !— for 
give  these  tears,  I  am  weak.  .  .  .  He  lies  now,  up 
stairs,  looking  so  beautiful— like  that  boyish  por 
trait,  you  remember,  with  the  uplifted,  solemn  gaze 
— only  deeper,  more  peaceful  and  without  the  ar 
dor.  .  .  . 

"Darling  mother,  don't  bother  a  bit  a,bout  me. 
Eddy  and  Jack  will  help  me  in  everything,  all  our 
friends  are  wonderful  to  us.— Day  after  to-morrow 
we  are  to  carry  him  to  his  rest. — After  that,  when  I 
feel  a  little  stronger,  I  will  write  again.  Eddy  goes 
to  you  directly  after  the  funeral.  If  you  need  me, 
cable  for  me  at  once.  I  have  many  ties  and  many 
claims  here,  but  I  will  leave  them  all  to  spend  the 
winter  with  you,  if  you  need  me.  For  you  may  not 
feel  that  you  care  to  come  to  us,  and  perhaps  it  will 
be  easier  for  you  to  bear  it  over  there,  where  you 
have  so  many  friends  and  have  made  your  life.  So 
if  I  can  be  of  any  help,  any  comfort,  don't  hesitate, 
mother  dear. 

"And— oh,  I  want  to  say  it  so  lovingly,  my  arms 
around  you— don't  fear  that  I  have  any  hardness 
in  my  heart  toward  you.  I  loved  him— with  all  my 
soul— as  you  know;  but  if,  sometimes,  seeing  his 
patient  pain,  I  have  judged  you,  perhaps,  with 
youth's  over-severity,— all  that  is  gone  now.  I  only 
feel  our  human  weakness,  our  human  need,  our 
human  sorrow.  Remember,  darling,  that  our  very 
faults,  our  very  mistakes,  are  the  things  that  may 
help  us  to  grow  higher.  Don't  sink  into  a  useless 
self-reproach.  'Turn  your  sorrow  to  noble  uses.' 
Use  the  past  to  light  you  to  the  future.  Build  on 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  17 

the  ruins,  dear  one.  You  have  Eddy  and  me  to  live 
for,  and  we  love  you.  God  bless  you,  my  darling 
mother. 

' '  IMOGEN.  ' ' 

This  letter,  written  in  a  large,  graceful  and  very 
legible  hand,  was  being  read  for  the  third  time  by 
the  bereaved  wife  as  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room  of 
a  small  house  in  Surrey  on  a  cold  November  even 
ing.  The  room  was  one  of  the  most  finished  com 
fort,  comfort  its  main  intention,  but  so  thor 
oughly  attained  that  beauty  had  resulted  as  if  un 
consciously.  The  tea-table,  the  fire,  the  wide  win 
dows,  their  chintz  curtains  now  drawn,  were  the 
points  around  which  the  room  had  so  delightfully 
arranged  itself.  It  was  a  room  a  trifle  overcrowded, 
but  one  would  n't  have  wanted  anything  taken 
away,  the  graceful  confusion,  on  a  background  of 
almost  austere  order,  gave  the  happiest  sense  of 
adaptability  to  a  variety  of  human  needs  and  whims. 
Mrs.  Upton  had  finished  her  own  tea,  but  the  flame 
still  burned  in  waiting  under  the  silver  urn;  books 
and  reviews  lay  in  reach  of  a  lazy  hand;  lamps, 
candle-light  and  flowers  made  a  soft  radiance;  a 
small  griffon  dozed  before  the  fire.  The  decoration 
of  the  room  consisted  mainly  in  French  engravings 
from  Watteau  and  Chardin,  in  one  or  two  fine  black 
lacquer  cabinets  and  in  a  number  of  jars  and  vases 
of  Chinese  porcelain,  some  standing  on  the  floor  and 
some  on  shelves,  the  neutral-tinted  walls  a  back 
ground  to  their  bright,  delicate  colors. 

Mrs.  Upton  was  an  appropriate  center  to  so  much 


18  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ease  and  beauty.  In  deep  black  though  she  was, 
her  still  girlish  figure  stretched  out  in  a  low  chair, 
her  knees  crossed,  one  foot  held  to  the  fire,  she  did 
not  seem  to  express  woe  or  the  poignancy  of  regret. 
The  delicate  appointments  of  her  dress,  the  fresh 
ness  of  her  skin,  her  eyes,  bright  and  unfatigued, 
suggested  nothing  less  than  a  widow  plunged  in  re 
morseful  grief.  Her  eyes,  indeed,  were  thoughtful, 
her  lips,  as  she  read  her  daughter's  communication, 
grave,  but  there  was  much  discrepancy  between  her 
own  aspect  and  the  letter's  tone,  and,  letting  it  drop 
at  last,  she  seemed  herself  aware  of  it,  sighing,  glanc 
ing  about  her  at  the  Chinese  porcelain,  the  tea-table, 
the  dozing  dog.  She  did  n't  look  stricken,  nor  did 
she  feel  so.  The  first  fact  only  vaguely  crossed  her 
mind ;  the  latter  stayed  and  her  face  became  graver, 
sadder,  in  contemplating  it.  She  contemplated  it  for 
a  long  time,  going  over  a  retrospect  in  which  her 
dead  husband's  figure  and  her  own  were  seen,  stead 
ily,  sadly,  but  without  severity  for  either. 

Since  the  shock  of  the  announcement,  conveyed  in 
a  long,  tender  cable  over  a  week  ago,  she  had  had  no 
time,  as  it  were,  to  cast  up  these  accounts  with  the 
past.  Her  mind  had  known  only  a  confused  pain, 
a  confused  pity,  for  herself  and  for  the  man  whom 
she  once  had  loved.  The  death,  so  long  ago,  of  that 
young  love  seemed  more  with  her  than  her  husband's 
death,  which  took  on  the  visionary,  picture  aspect 
of  any  tragedy  seen  from  a  distance,  not  lived 
through.  But  now,  in  this  long,  firelit  leisure,  that 
was  the  final  summing  of  it  all.  She  was  grave, 
she  was  sad ;  but  she  could  feel  no  severity  for  her- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  19 

self,  and,  long  ago,  she  had  ceased  to  feel  any  for 
poor  Everard.  They  had  been  greatly  mistaken  in 
fancying  themselves  made  for  each  other,  two  crea 
tures  could  hardly  have  been  less  so;  but  Everard 
had  been  a  good  man  and  she, — she  was  a  harmless 
woman.  Both  of  them  had  meant  well.  Of  course 
Everard  had  always,  and  for  everything,  meant  a  great 
deal  more  than  she,  in  the  sense  of  an  intentional 
shaping  of  courses.  She  had  always  owned  that,  had 
always  given  his  intentions  full  credit;  only,  what 
he  had  meant  had  bored  her— she  could  not  find  it 
in  herself  now  to  fix  on  any  more  self -exonerating 
term.  After  the  first  perplexed  and  painful  years 
of  adjustment  to  fundamental  disappointment  she 
had  at  last  seen  the  facts  clearly  and  not  at  all  un 
kindly,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that,  as  far  as  her 
husband  went,  she  had  made  the  best  of  them.  It 
was  rather  odious  of  her,  no  doubt,  to  think  it  now, 
but  it  seemed  the  truth,  and,  seen  in  its  light,  poor 
little  Imogen's  exhortations  and  consolations  were 
misplaced.  Once  or  twice  in  reading  the  letter  she 
had  felt  an  inclination  to  smile,  an  inclination  that 
had  swiftly  passed  into  compunction  and  self-re 
proach. 

Yes,  there  it  was ;  she  could  find  very  little  of  self- 
reproach  within  her  in  regard  to  her  husband;  but 
in  regard  to  Imogen  her  conscience  was  not  easy,  and 
as  her  thoughts  passed  to  her,  her  face  grew  still 
sadder  and  still  graver.  She  saw  Imogen,  in  the  long 
retrospect, — it  was  always  Imogen,  Eddy  had  never 
counted  as  a  problem— first  as  a  child  whom  she 
could  take  abroad  with  her  for  French,  German, 


20  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Italian  educational  experiences;  then  as  a  young 
girl,  very  determined  to  form  her  own  character, 
and  sure,  with  her  father  to  second  her  assurance, 
that  boarding-school  was  the  proper  place  to  form  it. 
Eddy  was  also  at  school,  and  Mrs.  Upton,  with  the 
alternative  of  flight  or  an  unbroken  tete-a-tete  with 
her  husband  before  her,  chose  the  former.  There 
was  no  breach,  no  crash ;  any  such  disturbances  had 
taken  place  long  before ;  she  simply  slid  away,  and 
her  prolonged  absences  seemed  symbols  of  funda 
mental  and  long  recognized  divisions.  She  came 
home  for  the  children's  holidays;  built,  indeed,  the 
little  house  among  the  Vermont  hills,  so  that  she 
might,  as  it  were,  be  her  husband's  hostess  there. 
She  hoped,  through  the  ambiguous  years,  for  Imo 
gen's  young- womanhood ;  looking  forward  to  taking 
her  place  beside  her  when  the  time  came  for  her  first 
steps  in  the  world.  But  here,  again,  Imogen's  clear- 
cut  choice  interfered.  Imogen  considered  girlish 
frivolities  a  foolish  waste  of  time;  she  would  take 
her  place  in  the  world  when  she  was  fully  equipped 
for  the  encounter;  she  was  not  yet  equipped  to  her 
liking  and  she  declared  herself  resolved  on  a  college 
course. 

Imogen  had  been  out  of  college  for  three  years 
now,  but  the  routine  of  Mrs.  Upton's  life  was  un 
changed.  The  rut  had  been  made  too  deep  for  her 
to  climb  out  of  it.  It  had  become  impossible  to 
think  of  reentering  her  husband's  home  as  a  per 
manent  part  of  it.  Eddy  was  constantly  with  her 
in  England  in  the  intervals  of  his  undergraduate 
life ;  but  how  urge  upon  Imogen  more  frequent  meet- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  21 

ings  when  her  absence  would  leave  the  father  deso 
late  ?  The  summers  had  come  to  be  their  only  times 
of  reunion  and  Mrs.  Upton  had  more  and  more  come 
to  look  forward  to  them  with  an  inward  tremor  of 
uncertainty  and  discomfort.  For,  under  everything, 
above  everything,  was  the  fact,  and  she  felt  herself 
now  to  be  looking  it  hard  in  the  face,  that  Imogen 
had  always,  obviously,  emphatically,  been  fondest 
of  her  father.  It  had  been  from  the  child's  earliest 
days,  this  more  than  fondness,  this  placid  partizan- 
ship.  In  looking  back  it  seemed  to  her  that  Imogen 
had  always  disapproved  of  her,  had  always  shown 
her  disapproval,  gently,  even  tenderly,  but  with  a 
sad  firmness.  Her  liberation  from  her  husband's 
standard  was  all  very  well;  she  cared  nothing  for 
Imogen 's  standard  either,  in  so  far  as  it  was  an  echo, 
a  reflection ;  only,  for  her  daughter  not  to  care  for 
her,  to  disapprove  of  her,  to  be  willing  that  she 
should  go  out  of  her  life,— there  was  the  rub;  and 
the  fact  that  she  should  be  considering  it  over  a 
tea-table  in  Surrey  while  Imogen  was  battling  with 
all  the  somber  accompaniments  of  grief  in  New 
York,  challenged  her  not  to  deny  some  essential  de 
fect  in  her  own  maternity.  She  was  an  honest 
woman,  and  after  her  hour  of  thought  she  could  not 
deny  it,  though  she  could  not  see  clearly  where  it 
lay;  but  the  recognition  was  but  a  step  to  the  own 
ing  that  she  must  try  to  right  herself.  And  at  this 
point,— she  had  drawn  a  deep  breath  over  it,  straight 
ening  herself  in  her  chair,— her  friends  came  in 
from  their  drive  and  put  an  end  to  her  solitude. 
For  the  first  years  of  her  semi-detached  life  Mrs. 


22  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Upton  had  been  as  gay  as  a  very  decorous  young 
grass-widow  can  be.  Her  whole  existence,  until  her 
marriage,  which  had  dropped,  or  lifted,  her  to 
graver  levels,  had  been  passed  among  elaborate  social 
conditions,  and  wherever  she  might  go  she  found  the 
protection  of  a  recognized  background.  She  had 
multitudes  of  acquaintances  and  these  surrounding 
nebulae  condensed,  here  and  there,  into  the  fixed 
stars  of  friendship.  Not  that  such  condensations 
were  swift  or  frequent.  Mrs.  Upton  was  not  easily 
intimate.  Her  very  graces,  her  very  kindnesses,  her 
sympathy  and  sweetness,  were,  in  a  manner,  out 
posts  about  an  inner  citadel  and  one  might  for  years 
remain,  hospitably  entertained,  yet  kept  at  a  dis 
tance.  But  the  stars,  when  they  did  form,  were  very 
fixed.  Of  such  were  the  two  friends  who  now  came 
in  eager  for  tea,  after  their  nipping  drive:  Mrs. 
Pakenham,  English,  mother  of  a  large  family,  wife 
of  a  hard- worked  M.P.  and  landowner ;  energetically 
interested  in  hunting,  philanthropy,  books  and  peo 
ple  ;  slender  and  vigorous,  with  a  delicate,  emaciated 
face,  weather-beaten  to  a  pale,  crisp  red,  her  eyes 
as  blue  as  porcelain,  her  hair  still  gold,  her  smile  of 
the  kindest,  and  Mrs.  Wake,  American,  rosy,  rather 
stout,  rather  shabby,  and  extremely  placid  of  mien. 
Mrs.  Pakenham,  after  her  drive,  was  beautifully 
tidy,  furred  as  to  shoulders  and  netted  as  to  hair ; 
Mrs.  Wake  was  much  disarranged  and  came  in, 
smiling  patiently,  while  she  put  back  the  disheveled 
locks  from  her  brow.  She  was  childless,  a  widow, 
very  poor;  eking  out  her  insufficient  income  by 
novel-writing;  unpopular  novels  that  dealt,  usually, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  23 

with  gloomy  themes  of  monotonous  and  disappointed 
lives.  She  was,  herself,  anything  but  gloomy. 

She  gave  her  friend,  now,  swift,  short  glances, 
while,  standing  before  her,  her  back  to  the  fire,  she 
put  her  hair  behind  her  ears.  She  had  known 
Valerie  Upton  from  childhood,  when  they  had  both 
been  the  indulged  daughters  of  wealthy  homes,  and 
through  all  the  catastrophes  and  achievements  of 
their  lives  they  had  kept  in  close  touch  with  each 
other.  Mrs.  Wake's  glances,  now,  were  fond,  but 
slightly  quizzical,  perhaps  slightly  critical.  They 
took  in  her  friend,  her  attitude,  her  beautifully 
"done"  hair,  her  fresh,  sweet  face,  so  little  faded, 
even  her  polished  finger-nails,  and  they  took  in,  very 
unobtrusively,  the  American  letter  on  her  lap.  It 
was  Mrs.  Pakenham  who  spoke  of  the  letter. 

"You  have  heard,  then,  dear?" 

"Yes,  from  Imogen." 

Both  had  seen  her  stunned,  undemonstrative  pain 
in  the  first  days  of  the  bereavement;  the  cables  had 
supplied  all  essential  information.  Her  quiet,  now, 
seemed  to  intimate  that  the  letter  contained  no  har 
rowing  details. 

"The  poor  child  is  well,  I  hope?" 

' '  Yes,  I  think  so ;  she  does  n  't  speak  much  of  her 
self  ;  she  is  very  brave." 

Mrs.  Pakenham,  a  friend  of  more  recent  date,  had 
not  known  Mr.  Upton,  nor  had  she  ever  met  Imogen. 

"Eddy  was  with  her,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Wake. 

"Yes,  and  this  young  Mr.  Pennington,  who  seems 
to  have  become  a  great  friend.  May  Smith  and  Julia 
Halliwell,  of  course,  must  have  helped  her  through 


24  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

it  all.  She  says  that  people  are  very  kind."  Mrs. 
Upton  spoke  quietly.  She  did  not  offer  to  show  the 
letter. 

"Jack  Pennington.  Imogen  met  him  when  she 
went  last  year  to  Boston.  You  remember  old  Miss 
Pennington,  his  great-aunt,  Valerie." 

"Very  well.     But  this  Jack  I  've  never  met." 

"He  is,  I  hear,  devoted  to  Imogen." 

"So  I  infer." 

"And  the  very  nicest  kind  of  young  man,  though 
over-serious. ' ' 

"I  inferred  that,  too/' 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Wake,  "Eddy  will  be  here 
on  Saturday ;  but  what  of  Imogen  ? ' ' 

"Imogen  says  that  she  will  come  over  at  once,  if 
I  want  her." 

"Far  the  best  plan.  She  will  live  with  you  here — 
until  she  marries  Mr.  Pennington,  or  some  other 
devotee,"  said  Mrs.  Pakenham  comfortably. 

Mrs.  Upton  looked  up  at  her.  "No,  I  shall  go  to 
her,  until  she  marries  Mr.  Pennington  or  some  other 
devotee." 

There  was  after  this  a  slight  pause,  and  it  was 
Mrs.  Pakenham  who  broke  it  with  undiminished 
cheerfulness.  "Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  that  will  be 
best,  for  the  present.  Of  course  it  's  a  pity  to  have 
to  shut  up  your  home,  just  as  you  are  so  nicely  in 
stalled  for  the  winter.  But,  you  must  n't  let  her 
delay,  my  dear,  in  getting  married.  You  can't  wait 
over  there  indefinitely,  you  know." 

"Ah,  it  's  just  that  that  I  must  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Upton. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  25 

There  was,  again,  silence  at  this,  perhaps  over  a 
further  sense  of  fitness,  but  in  it  Mrs.  Pakenham's 
eyes  met  Mrs.  Wake's  in  a  long  interchange.  Mrs. 
Upton,  in  the  event  of  Imogen  "delaying,"  would 
not  stay ;  that  was  what,  plainly,  it  intimated. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Pakenham,  after  some 
moments  of  this  silent  acquiescence  and  silent  skepti 
cism,  ' '  that  will  make  it  very  evident  why  you  did  n  't 
stay  before." 

"Not  necessarily.  Imogen  has  no  one  with  her 
now ;  my  preferences  as  to  a  home  would  naturally 
go  down  before  such  an  obvious  duty." 

"So  that  you  will  simply  take  up  all  the  threads, 
yours  and  hers  ? ' ' 

"I  shall  try  to." 

"You  think  she  '11  like  that?"  Mrs.  Pakenham 
inquired. 

"Like  what?"  Mrs.  Upton  rather  quickly  asked. 

' '  That  you  should  take  up  her  threads.  Is  n 't  she 
very  self-reliant?  Has  n't  her  life,  the  odd  situa 
tion,  made  her  so  ? " 

At  this  Mrs.  Upton,  her  eyes  on  the  fire,  blushed ; 
faintly,  yet  the  deepening  of  color  was  evident,  and 
Mrs.  Pakenham,  leaning  impulsively  forward,  put 
her  hand  on  hers,  saying,  "Dear  Valerie,  I  don't 
mean  that  you  're  responsible!" 

"But  I  am  responsible."  Mrs.  Upton  did  not  look 
at  her  friend,  though  her  hand  closed  gently  on  hers. 

"For  nothing  with  which  you  can  reproach  your 
self,  which  you  can  even  regret,  then.  It  's  well, 
altogether  well,  that  a  girl  should  be  self-reliant  and 
have  her  own  threads. ' ' 


26  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Not  well,  though,"  said  Mrs.  Wake,  folding  the 
much-entangled  veil  she  had  removed,  "that  a 
daughter  should  get  on  so  perfectly  without  her 
mother. ' ' 

"Really,  I  don't  know  about  that"— Mrs.  Paken- 
ham  was  eager  in  generous  theories— "not  well  for 
us  poor  mothers,  perhaps,  who  find  it  difficult  to  be 
lieve  that  we  are  such  background  creatures." 

"Not  well  for  the  daughter,"  Mrs.  Wake  rejoined. 
"In  this  case  I  think  that  Imogen  has  been  more 
harmed  than  Valerie." 

"Harmed!"  Mrs.  P^kenham  exclaimed,  while 
Valerie  Upton's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  fire. 
"How  can  she  have  been  harmed?  From  all  I  hear 
of  her  she  is  the  pink  of  perfection." 

"She  is  a  good  girl." 

"You  mean  that  she  's  suffered?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  that  she  has  suffered." 

Mrs.  Wake  was  evidently  determined  to  remain 
enigmatical;  but  Valerie  Upton  quietly  drew  aside 
her  reserves.  "That  is  the  trouble,  you  think;  she 
hasn't." 

"That  is  a  symptom  of  the  trouble.  She  does  n't 
suffer ;  she  judges.  It  's  very  harmful  for  a  young 
girl  to  sit  in  judgment." 

"But  Valerie  has  seen  her  so  much!"  Mrs.  Paken- 
ham  cried,  a  little  shocked  at  the  other's  ruthless- 
ness.  "Three  months  of  every  year— almost. " 

"Three  months  when  they  played  hostess  to  each 
other.  It  was  really  Valerie  who  was  the  guest  in 
the  house  when  Imogen  and  her  father  were  there. 
The  relation  was  never  normal.  Now  that  poor 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  27 

Everard  is  gone,  the  necessary  artificiality  can 
cease.  Valerie  can  try  her  hand  at  being  a  mother, 
not  a  guest.  It  will  do  both  her  and  Imogen  good. ' ' 
"That  's  just  the  conclusion  I  had  come  to. 
That  's  just  how  I  had  been  seeing  it."  The  fresh 
tea-pot  was  brought  in  at  this  juncture,  and,  as  she 
spoke,  Valerie  roused  herself  to  measure  in  the  tea 
and  pour  on  the  boiling  water.  She  showed  them, 
thus,  more  fully,  the  grace,  the  freshness,  the  look  of 
latent  buoyancy  that  made  her  so  young,  that  made 
her,  even  now,  in  her  black  dress  and  with  her 
gravity,  remind  one  of  a  flower,  submerged,  mo 
mentarily,  in  deep  water,  its  color  hardly  blurred, 
its  petals  delicately  crisp,  its  fragrance  only  need 
ing  air  and  sunlight  to  diffuse  itself.  For  all  the 
youthfulness,  a  quality  of  indolent  magic  was  about 
her,  a  soft  haze,  as  it  were,  woven  of  matured  expe 
rience,  of  detachment  from  youth's  self-absorption, 
of  the  observer's  kindly,  yet  ironic,  insight.  Her 
figure  was  supple;  her  nut-brown  hair,  splendidly 
folded  at  the  back  of  her  head,  was  hardly  touched 
with  white ;  her  quickly  glancing,  deliberately  paus 
ing,  eyes  were  as  clear,  as  pensive,  as  a  child's,  with 
almost  a  child's  candor  of  surprise  in  the  upturning 
of  their  lashes.  A  brunette  duskiness  in  the  rose  of 
lips  and  cheeks,  in  the  black  brows,  in  the  fruit- 
like  softness  of  outline,  was  like  a  veil  drawn  across 
and  dimming  the  fairness  that  paled  to  a  pearly 
white  at  throat  and  temples.  Her  upper  lip  was 
ever  so  faintly  shadowed  with  a  brunette  penciling 
of  down,  and  three  grains  de  beaute,  like  tiny  patches 
of  velvet,  seemed  applied  with  a  pretty  coquetry,  one 


28  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

on  her  lip  and  two  high  on  her  cheek,  where  they 
emphasized  and  lent  a  touch  of  the  Japanese  to  her 
smile.  Even  her  physical  aspect  carried  out  the 
analogy  of  something  vivid  and  veiled.  She  was 
clear  as  day,  yet  melting,  merged,  elusive,  like  the 
night;  and  in  her  glance,  in  her  voice,  was  that 
mingled  brightness  and  shadow.  When  she  had 
given  them  their  tea  she  left  her  friends,  taking  her 
toasted  little  dog,  languid  and  yawning,  under  her 
arm,  and,  at  a  sharp  yelp  from  this  petted  individual, 
his  paw  struck  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  they 
heard  her  exclaiming  in  contrition  over  him,  "Dar 
ling  lamb!  did  his  wicked  mother  hurt  him!" 

Mrs.  Pakenham  and  Mrs.  Wake  sipped  their  tea 
for  some  time  in  silence,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Pakenham 
who  voiced  at  last  the  thought  uppermost  for  both 
of  them,  "I  wonder  how  Sir  Basil  will  take  it." 

' '  Everard  's  death,  you  mean,  or  her  going  off  ? " 

"Both." 

"It  's  obvious,  I  think,  that  if  he  does  n't  follow 
her  at  once  it  will  only  be  because  he  thinks  that 
now  his  chance  has  come  he  will  make  it  surer  by 
waiting." 

"It  's  rather  odious  of  me  to  think  about  it  at  all, 
I  suppose,"  Mrs.  Pakenham  mused,  "but  one  can't 
help  it,  having  seen  it  all ;  having  seen  more  than 
either  of  them  have,  I  'm  quite  sure,  poor,  lovely 
dears. ' ' 

"No,  one  certainly  can't  help  it,"  Mrs.  Wake  ac 
quiesced.  "Though  I,  perhaps,  should  have  been 
too  prudish  to  own  to  it  just  now — with  poor  Everard 
hardly  in  his  grave.  But  that  's  the  comfort  of  be- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  29 

ing  with  a  frank,  unscrupulous  person  like  you ;  one 
gets  it  all  out  and  need  take  no  responsibility. ' ' 

Mrs.  Pakenham  smiled  over  her  friend's  self -ex 
posure  and  helped  her  to  greater  comfort  with  a 
still  more  crude,  ' '  It  will  be  perfect,  you  know,  if  he 
does  succeed.  I  suppose  there  's  no  doubt  that  he 
will." 

' '  I  don 't  know ;  I  really  don 't  know, ' '  Mrs.  Wake 
mused. 

"One  knows  well  enough  that  she  's  tremendously 
fond  of  him, — it  's  just  that  that  she  has  taken  her 
stand  on  so  beautifully,  so  gracefully." 

"Yes,  so  beautifully  and  so  gracefully  that  while 
one  does  know  that,  one  can't  know  more— he  least 
of  all.  He,  I  'm  pretty  sure,  knows  not  a  scrap 
more. ' ' 

"But,  after  all,  now  that  she  's  free,  that  is 
enough. ' ' 

"Yes— except— " 

"Really,  my  dear,  I  see  no  exception.  He  is  a 
delightful  creature,  as  sound,  as  strong,  as  true; 
and  if  he  is  n't  very  clever,  Valerie  is  far  too  clever 
herself  to  mind  that,  far  too  clever  not  to  care  for 
how  much  more  than  clever  he  is. ' ' 

"Oh,  it  's  not  that  she  does  n't  care—' 

"What  is  it,  then,  you  carping,  skeptical  crea 
ture?  It  's  all  perfect.  An  uncongenial,  tiresome 
husband — and  she  need  have  no  self-reproach  about 
him,  either — finally  out  of  the  way;  a  reverential 
adorer  at  hand;  youth  still  theirs;  money;  a  de 
lightful  place — what  more  could  one  ask?" 

"Ah,"  Mrs.  Wake  sighed  a  little,  "I  don't  know. 


30  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

It  's  not,  perhaps,  that  one  would  ask  more,  but 
less.  It  's  too  pretty,  too  easy,  too  a  propos;  so 
much  so  that  it  frightens  me  a  little.  Valerie  has, 
you  see,  made  a  mess  of  it.  She  has,  you  see, 
spoiled  her  life,  in  that  aspect  of  it.  To  mend  it 
now,  so  completely,  to  start  fresh  at— how  old  is 
she? — at  forty-six,  it  's  just  a  little  glib.  Somehow 
one  does  n't  get  off  so  easily  as  that.  One  can't 
start  so  happily  at  forty-six.  Perhaps  one  is  wiser 
not  to  try. ' ' 

"Oh,  nonsense,  my  dear!  It  's  very  American, 
that,  you  know,  that  picking  of  holes  in  excellent 
material,  furbishing  up  your  consciences,  running 
after  your  motives  as  if  you  were  ferrets  in  a  rat- 
hole.  If  all  you  have  to  say  against  it  is  that  it  's 
too  perfect,  too  happy,— why,  then  I  keep  to  my 
own  conviction.  She  '11  be  peacefully  married  and 
back  among  us  in  a  year. ' ' 

Mrs.  Wake  seemed  to  acquiesce,  yet  still  to  have 
her  reserves.  ' '  There  's  Imogen,  you  know.  Imogen 
has  to  be  counted  with." 

' '  Counted  with !  Valerie,  I  hope,  is  clever  enough 
to  manage  that  young  person.  It  would  be  a  little 
too  much  if  the  daughter  spoiled  the  end  of  her 
life  as  the  husband  spoiled  the  beginning." 

"You  are  a  bit  hard  on  Everard,  you  know,  from 
mere  partizanship.  Valerie  was  by  no  means  a  mis 
used  wife  and  his  friends  may  well  have  thought 
him  a  misused  husband ;  Imogen  does,  I  'in  sure. 
She  has,  perhaps,  a  right  to  feel  that,  as  her  father's 
representative,  her  mother  owes  her  something  in 
the  way  of  atonement. ' ' 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  31 

"It  does  vex  me,  my  dear,  to  have  you  argue  like 
that  against  your  own  convictions.  It  was  all  his 
fault, — one  only  has  to  know  her  to  be  sure  of  it. 
He  made  things  unbearable  for  her. ' ' 

"It  was  hardly  his  fault.  He  could  n't  help  be 
ing  unbearable." 

"Well— certainly  she  could  n't  help  it!"  cried 
Mrs.  Pakenham,  laughing  as  if  this  settled  it.  She 
rose,  putting  her  hands  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
warming  her  foot  preparatory  to  her  departure ; 
and,  summing  up  her  cheerful  convictions,  she 
added:  "I  'm  sorry  for  the  poor  man,  of  course; 
but,  after  all,  he  seems  to  have  done  very  much 
what  he  liked  with  his  life.  And  I  can't  help  being 
very  glad  that  he  did  n't  succeed  in  quite  spoiling 
hers.  Good  luck  to  Sir  Basil  is  what  I  say." 


m 


KS.  UPTON  was  in  the  drawing-room 
next  morning  when  Sir  Basil  Threm- 
don  was  announced.  She  had  not  seen 
this  old  friend  and  neighbor  since  the 
news  of  her  bereavement  had  reached 
her,  and  now,  rising  to  meet  him,  a  consciousness  of 
all  that  had  changed  for  her,  a  consciousness,  per 
haps  more  keen,  of  all  that  had  changed  for  him, 
showed  in  a  deepening  of  her  color. 

Sir  Basil  was  a  tall,  spare,  stalwart  man  of  fifty, 
the  limpid  innocence  of  his  blue  eyes  contrasting 
with  his  lean,  aquiline  countenance.  His  hair  and 
mustache  were  bleached  by  years  to  a  light  fawn- 
color  and  his  skin  tanned  by  a  hardy  life  to  a  deep 
russet ;  and  these  tints  of  fawn  and  russet  predom 
inated  throughout  his  garments  with  a  pleasing  har 
mony,  so  that  in  his  rough  tweeds  and  riding-gaiters 
he  seemed  as  much  a  product  of  the  nature  outside 
as  any  bird  or  beast.  The  air  of  a  delightfully 
civilized  rurality  was  upon  him,  an  air  of  land 
owning,  law-dispensing,  sporting  efficiency ;  and  if, 
in  the  fitness  of  his  coloring,  he  made  one  think  of 
a  fox  or  a  pheasant,  in  character  he  suggested  noth 
ing  so  much  as  one  of  the  deep-rooted  oaks  of  his 
own  park.  His  very  simplicity  and  uncomplexity  of 

32 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  33 

consciousness  was  as  fresh,  as  wholesome,  as  genially 
encompassing,  as  full  summer  foliage.  One  rested 
in  his  shade. 

He  was  an  inarticulate  person  and  his  eyes,  now, 
in  their  almost  scared  solicitude,  spoke  more  of  sym 
pathy  and  tenderness  than  his  halting  tongue.  He 
ended  by  repeating  a  good  many  times  that  he  hoped 
she  was  n't  too  frightfully  pulled  down.  Mrs.  Upton 
said  that  she  was  really  feeling  very  well,  though 
conscious  that  her  sincerity  might  somewhat  bewilder 
her  friend  in  his  conceptions  of  fitness,  and  they  sat 
down  side  by  side  on  a  small  sofa  near  the  window. 

We  have  said  that  for  the  first  years  of  her  free 
dom  Mrs.  Upton  had  been  very  gay.  Of  late  years 
the  claims  on  her  resources  from  the  family  across 
the  Atlantic  had  a  good  deal  clipped  her  wings,  and, 
though  she  made  a  round  of  spring  and  of  autumn 
visits,  she  spent  her  time  for  the  most  part  in  her 
little  Surrey  house,  engaged  desultorily  in  garden 
ing,  study,  and  the  entertainment  of  the  friend  or 
two  always  with  her.  She  had  not  found  it  difficult 
to  fold  her  wings  and  find  contentment  in  the  more 
nest-like  environment.  She  had  never  been  a  woman 
to  seek,  accepting  only,  happily,  whatever  gifts  life 
brought  her;  and  it  seemed  as  natural  to  her  that 
things  should  be  taken  as  that  things  should  be 
given.  But  with  the  renouncement  of  more  various 
outlooks  this  autumnal  quietness,  too,  had  brought 
its  gift,  discreet,  delicate,  a  whispered  sentence,  as 
it  were,  that  one  could  only  listen  to  blindfolded, 
but  that,  once  heard,  gave  one  the  knowledge  of  a 

hidden  treasure.     Sir  Basil  had  been  one  of  the 
e 


84  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

reasons,  the  greatest  reason,  for  her  happiness  in  the 
Surrey  nest.  It  was  since  coming  there  to  live  that 
she  had  grown  to  know  him  so  well,  with  the  slow- 
developing,  deep-rooted  intimacy  of  country  life. 
The  meadows  and  parks  of  Thremdon  Hall  encom 
passed  all  about  the  heath  where  Valerie  Upton's 
cottage  stood  among  its  trees.  They  were  Sir  Basil's 
woods  that  ran  down  to  her  garden  walls  and  Sir 
Basil's  lanes  that,  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  led  up, 
through  the  heather,  to  the  little  village,  a  mile  or 
so  away.  She  had  met  Sir  Basil  before  coming  to 
live  there,  once  or  twice  in  London,  and  once  or 
twice  for  week-ends  at  country-houses;  but  he  was 
not  a  person  whom  one  came  really  to  know  in  draw 
ing-room  conditions;  indeed,  at  the  country-houses 
one  hardly  saw  him  except  at  breakfast  and  dinner ; 
he  was  always  hunting,  golfing,  or  playing  billiards, 
and  in  the  interludes  to  these  occupations  one  found 
him  a  trifle  somnolent.  It  was  after  settling  quite 
under  his  wing — and  that  she  was  under  it  she  had 
discovered  only  after  falling  in  love  with  the  little 
white  cottage  and  rushing  eagerly  into  tenancy— 
that  she  had  found  out  what  a  perfect  neighbor  he 
was;  then  come  to  feel  him  as  a  near  friend;  then, 
as  those  other  friends  had  termed  it,  to  care  for  him. 
Valerie  Upton,  herself,  had  never  called  it  by  any 
other  name,  this  feeling  about  Sir  Basil;  though  it 
was  inevitable,  in  a  woman  of  her  clearness  of  vision, 
that  she  should  very  soon  recognize  a  more  definite 
quality  in  Sir  Basil's  feeling  about  her.  That  she 
had  always  kept  him  from  naming  it  more  definitely 
was  a  feat  for  which,  she  well  knew  it,  she  could 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  35 

allow  herself  some  credit.  Not  only  had  it  needed, 
at  some  moments,  dexterity ;  it  had  needed,  at 
others,  self-control.  Self-control,  however,  was 
habitual  to  her.  She  had  long  since  schooled  herself 
into  the  acceptance  of  her  stupidly  maimed  life, 
seeing  herself  in  no  pathetic  similes  at  all,  but, 
rather,  as  a  foolish,  unformed  creature  who,  partly 
through  blindness,  partly  through  recklessness,  had 
managed  badly  to  cripple  herself  at  the  outset  of 
life's  walk,  and  who  must  make  the  best  of  a  hop- 
skip-and-jump  gait  for  the  rest  of  it.  She  had  felt, 
when  she  decided  that  she  had  a  right  to  live  away 
from  Everard,  that  she  had  no  right  to  ask  more  of 
fortune  than  that  escape,  that  freedom.  One  paid 
for  such  freedom  by  limiting  one's  possibilities,  and 
she  had  never  hesitated  to  pay.  Never  to  indulge 
herself  in  sentimental  repinings  or  in  sentimental 
musings,  never  to  indulge  others  in  sentimental  rela 
tionships,  had  been  the  most  obvious  sort  of  pay 
ment;  and  if,  in  regard  to  Sir  Basil,  the  payment 
had  sometimes  been  difficult,  the  reward  had  been 
that  sense  of  unblemished  peace,  that  sense  of  com 
posure  and  gaiety.  It  was  enough  to  know,  as  a 
justification  of  her  success,  that  she  made  him 
happy,  not  unhappy.  It  was  enough  to  know  that 
she  could  own  freely  to  herself  how  much  she  cared 
for  him,  so  much  that,  finding  him  funny,  dear,  and 
dull,  she  was  far  fonder  of  his  f unniness,  of  his  dull 
ness,  than  of  other  people's  cleverness.  He  made 
her  feel  as  if,  on  that  maimed,  that  rather  hot  and 
jaded  walk,  sho  had  come  upon  the  great  oak-tree 
and  sat  down  to  rest  in  its  peaceful  shadow,  hearing 


36  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

it  rustle  happily  over  her  and  knowing  that  it  was 
secure  strength  she  leaned  against,  knowing  that  the 
happy  rustle  was  for  her,  because  she  was  there, 
peaceful  and  confident.  So  it  had  all  been  like  a 
gift,  a  sad,  sweet  secret  that  one  must  not  listen  to 
except  with  blindfolded  eyes.  She  had  never  allowed 
the  gift  to  become  a  burden  or  a  peril.  And  now, 
to-day,  for  the  first  time,  it  was  as  though  she  could 
raise  the  bandage  and  look  at  him. 

She  sat  beside  him  in  her  widow's  enfranchising 
blackness  and  she  could  n't  but  see,  at  last,  how 
deep  was  that  upwelling,  inevitable  fondness.  So 
deep  that,  gazing,  as  if  with  new  and  dazzled  eyes, 
she  wondered  a  little  giddily  over  the  long  self-mas 
tery;  so  deep  that  she  almost  felt  it  as  a  strange, 
unreal  tribute  to  trivial  circumstance  that,  without 
delay,  she  should  not  lean  her  head  against  the  dear 
oak  and  tell  it,  at  last,  that  its  shelter  was  all  that 
she  asked  of  life.  It  was  necessary  to  banish  the 
vision  by  the  firm  turning  to  that  other,  that  dark 
one,  of  her  dead  husband,  her  grief-stricken  child, 
and,  in  looking,  she  knew  that  while  it  was  so  near 
she  could  not  dwell  on  the  possibilities  of  freedom. 
So  she  talked  with  her  friend,  able  to  smile,  able, 
once  or  twice,  to  use  toward  him  her  more  intimate 
tone  of  affectionate  playfulness. 

"But  you  are  coming  back— directly !"  Sir  Basil 
exclaimed,  when  she  told  him  that  she  expected  her 
boy  in  a  few  days  and  that  they  would  sail  for  New 
York  together. 

Not  directly,  she  answered.  Before  very  long,  she 
hoped.  So  many  things  depended  on  Imogen. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  37 

"But  she  will  live  with  you  now,  over  here." 

"I  don't  think  that  she  will  want  to  leave 
America,"  said  Valerie.  "I  don't  think,  even,  that 
I  want  her  to. ' ' 

"But  this  is  your  home,  now,"  Sir  Basil  protested, 
looking  about,  as  though  for  evidences  of  the  asser 
tion,  at  the  intimate  comforts  of  the  room.  "You 
know  that  you  are  more  at  home  here  than  there. ' ' 

"Not  now.    My  home,  now,  is  Imogen's." 

Sir  Basil  appeared  to  reflect,  and  then  to  put 
aside  reflection  as,  after  all,  inapplicable,  as  yet,  to 
the  situation. 

"Well,  I  must  pay  America  a  visit,"  he  said  with 
an  unemphatic  smile.  "I  've  not  been  there  for 
twenty  years,  you  know.  I  '11  like  seeing  it  again, 
and  seeing  you — in  Miss  Imogen's  home." 

Valerie  again  flushed  a  little.  In  some  matters 
Sir  Basil  was  anything  but  dull,  and  his  throwing, 
now,  of  the  bridge  was  most  tactfully  done.  He 
intended  that  she  should  see  it  solidly  spanning  the 
distance  between  them  and  only  time  was  needed, 
she  knew,  to  give  him  his  right  of  walking  over  it, 
and  her  right— but  that  was  one  of  the  visions  she 
must  not  look  at.  A  great  many  things  lay  between 
now  and  then,  confused,  anxious,  perhaps  painful, 
things.  The  figure  of  Imogen  so  filled  the  immediate 
future  that  the  place  where  Sir  Basil  should  take 
up  his  thread  was  blotted  into  an  almost  melancholy 
haze  of  distance.  But  it  was  good  to  feel  the  bridge 
there,  to  know  him  so  swift  and  so  sure. 

"She  is  very  clever,  your  girl,  is  n't  she?  I  've 
always  felt  it  from  what  you  've  told  me,"  he  said, 


38  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

defining  for  himself,  as  she  saw,  the  future  where 
they  were  to  meet. 

"Very,  I  think." 

"Very  learned  and  artistic.  I  'm  afraid  she  '11 
find  me  an  awful  Philistine.  You  must  stand  up  for 
me  with  her. ' ' 

"I  will,"  Valerie  smiled,  adding,  "but  Imogen  is 
very  pretty,  too,  you  know. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know;  one  can  see  that  in  the  photo 
graphs,  ' '  said  Sir  Basil.  There  were  several  of  these 
standing  about  the  room  and  he  got  up  to  look  at 
them,  one  after  the  other — Imogen  in  evening,  in  day 
dress,  all  showing  her  erect  slenderness,  her  crown 
of  hair,  her  large,  calm  eyes. 

"She  looks  kind  but  very  cool,  you  know,"  he 
commented.  "She  would  take  one  in  at  a  great  rate ; 
not  find  much  use  for  an  every-day  person  like  me. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  won't  be  an  every-day  person  to  Imogen. 
And  her  great  point,  I  think,  is  her  finding  a  use  for 
everybody. ' ' 

"Making  them  useful  to  her?" 

"No— to  themselves— to  the  world  in  general." 

"Improving  them,  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  should  say  that  was  more  it.  She 
likes  to  give  people  a  lift. ' ' 

"But — she  's  so  very  young.  How  does  she  man 
age  it?"  Sir  Basil  queried  over  the  photograph, 
whose  eyes  dwelt  on  him  while  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  you  '11  see,"  Valerie  smiled  a  little  at  his 
pertinacity.  "I  've  no  doubt  that  she  will  improve 
you." 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Basil,  recognizing  her  jocund 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  39 

intention,  "she  's  welcome  to  try.  As  long  as  you 
are  there  to  see  that  she  is  n't  too  hard  on  me." 
He  dismissed  Imogen,  then,  from  his  sight  and 
thoughts,  replacing  her  on  the  writing-table  and 
suggesting  that  Mrs.  Upton  should  take  a  little  walk 
with  him.  His  horse  had  been  put  into  the  stable 
and  he  could  come  back  for  him.  Mrs.  Upton  said 
that  when  they  came  back  he  must  stay  to  lunch  and 
that  he  could  ride  home  afterward,  and  this  was 
agreed  on;  so  that  in  ten  minutes'  time  Mrs.  Paken- 
ham  and  Mrs.  Wake,  from  their  respective  windows, 
were  able  to  watch  their  widowed  friend  walking 
away  across  the  heather  with  Sir  Basil  beside  her. 

Neither  spoke  much  as  they  wended  their  way 
along  the  little  paths  of  silvery  sand  that  intersected 
the  common.  The  day  was  clear,  with  a  milky,  blue- 
streaked  sky;  the  distant  foldings  of  the  hills  were 
of  a  deep,  hyacinthine  blue. 

From  time  to  time  Sir  Basil  glanced  at  the  face 
beside  him,  thoughtful  to  sadness,  its  dusky  fairness 
set  in  black,  but  attentive,  as  always,  to  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  well-loved  country  about  her.  He 
liked  to  watch  the  quick  glancing,  the  clear  gazing, 
of  her  eyes ;  everything  she  looked  at  became  at  once 
more  significant  to  him— the  tangle  of  tenacious  roots 
that  thrust  through  the  greensand  soil  of  the  lane 
they  entered,  the  suave,  gray  columns  of  the  beeches 
above,  the  blurred  mauves  and  russets  of  the  woods, 
the  swift,  awkward  flight  of  a  pheasant  that  crossed 
their  way  with  a  creaking  whir  of  wings,  the  ame 
thyst  stars  of  a  bush  of  Michaelmas  daisies,  showing 
over  a  whitewashed  cottage  wall,  the  far  blue  dis- 


40  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

tance  before  them,  framed  in  the  tracery  of  the 
beech-boughs.  He  knew  that  she  loved  it  all  from 
the  way  she  looked  at  it  and,  almost  indignantly,  as 
though  against  some  foolish  threat,  he  felt  himself 
asseverating,  "It  is  her  home — she  knows  it — the 
place  she  loves  like  that."  And  when  they  had 
made  their  wide  round,  down  the  lane,  up  a  grassy 
dell,  into  his  park,  where  he  had  to  show  her  some 
trees  that  must  come  down ;  when  they  had  skirted 
the  park,  along  its  mossy,  fern-grown  wall,  and 
under  its  overhanging  branches,  until,  once  more, 
they  were  on  the  common  and  the  white  of  Valerie 's 
cottage  glimmered  before  them,  he  voiced  this  pro 
test,  saying  to  her,  as  he  watched  her  eyes  dwell  on 
the  dear  little  place,  "You  could  never  bear  to  leave 
all  this  for  good— even  if,  even  if  we  let  you;  you 
know  you  could  n't." 

Valerie  looked  round  at  him,  and  in  his  face, 
against  its  high  background  of  milk-streaked  blue, 
she  saw  the  embodiment  of  his  words;  it  was  that, 
not  the  hyacinthine  hills,  not  the  beech-woods,  not 
the  heathery  common,  not  even  the  dear  cottage,  that 
she  could  not  bear  to  leave  for  good.  But  since  this 
could  n't  be  said,  she  consented  to  the  symbol  of  it 
that  he  put  before  her,  that  "all  this,"  and  answered, 
as  he  had  hoped,  "No,  indeed;  I  could  n't  think  of 
leaving  it  all,  for  good." 


IV 


|T  was  an  icy,  sunny  day,  and  Imogen 
Upton  and  Jack  Pennington  were  walk 
ing  up  and  down  the  gaunt  wharf,  not 
caring  to  take  refuge  from  the  cold  in 
the  stifling  waiting-rooms.  The  early 
morning  sky  was  still  pink.  The  waters  of  the  vast 
harbor  were  whitened  by  blocks  and  sheets  of  ice. 
The  great  city,  drawn  delicately  on  the  pink  in 
white  and  pearl,  marched  its  fantastic  ranges  of 
"sky-scrapers" — an  army  of  giants— down  to  the 
water's  edge.  And,  among  all  the  rose  and  gold  and 
white,  the  ocean-liner,  a  glittering  immensity  of 
helpless  strength,  was  being  hauled  and  butted  into 
her  dock,  like  some  harpooned  sea-monster,  by  a 
swarm  of  blunt-nosed,  agile  little  tugs. 

Jack  Pennington  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
Imogen  looking  so  "wonderful"  as  on  this  morning. 
The  occasion,  to  him,  was  brimming  over  with  sig 
nificance.  He  had  not  expected  to  share  it,  but 
Imogen  had  spoken  with  such  sweetness  of  the  help 
that  he  would  give  her  if  he  could  be  with  her  in 
her  long,  cold  waiting,  that,  with  touched  delight, 
he  found  himself  in  the  position  of  a  friend  so 
trusted,  so  leaned  upon,  that  he  could  witness  what 
there  must  be  of  pain  and  fear  for  her  in  this  meet- 

41 


42  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ing  of  her  new  life.  The  old  life  was  with  them 
both.  Her  black  armed  her  in  it,  as  it  were,  made 
her  valiant  to  meet  the  new.  And  for  him  that  old 
life,  the  life  menaced,  though  so  trivially,  by  the 
arriving  presence,  seemed  embodied  in  the  free 
spaces  of  the  great  harbor,  the  soaring  sky  of  frosty 
rose,  the  grotesque  splendor  of  the  giant  city,  the 
glory,  the  ugliness  of  the  country  he  loved,  the 
country  that  made  giant-like,  grotesque  cities,  and 
that  made  Imogens. 

She  was  the  flower  of  it  all— the  flower  and  the 
so  much  more  than  flower,  fie  did  n't  care  a  fig, 
so  he  told  himself,  about  the  mere  fact  of  her  being 
beautiful,  finished,  in  her  long  black  furs,  her  face 
so  white,  her  hair  so  gold  under  her  little  hat.  She 
was  n't  to  be  picked  and  placed  high,  above  the 
swarming  ugliness.  No,  and  that  was  why  he  cared 
for  her  when  he  had  ceased  to  care  for  so  many 
pretty  girls— her  roots  were  deep ;  she  shared  her 
loveliness;  she  gave;  she  opened;  she  did  not  shut 
away.  She  was  the  promise  for  many  rather  than 
the  guerdon  of  the  few.  Jack's  democracy  was  the 
ripe  fruit  of  an  ancestry  of  high  endeavor  and  high 
responsibility.  The  service  of  impersonal  ends  was 
in  his  blood,  and  no  meaner  task  had  ever  been  asked 
of  him  or  of  a  long  line  of  forebears.  He  had  never 
in  his  own  person  experienced  ugliness ;  it  remained 
a  picture,  seen  but  not  felt  by  him,  so  that  it  was 
not  difficult  for  him  to  see  it  with  the  eyes  of  faith 
as  glorified  and  uplifted.  It  constituted  a  splendid 
burden,  an  ennobling  duty,  for  those  who  possessed 
beauty,  and  without  that  grave  and  happy  right  to 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  43 

serve,  beauty  itself  would  lose  all  meaning.  He  often 
talked  about  democracy  to  Imogen.  She  understood 
what  he  felt  about  it  more  firmly,  more  surely,  than 
he  himself  did;  for,  where  he  sometimes  suspected 
himself  of  theory,  she  acted.  She,  too,  rejoiced  in 
the  fundamental  sameness  of  the  human  family  that 
banded  it  together  in,  essentially,  the  same  great 
adventure— the  adventure  of  the  soul. 

Imogen  understood ;  Imogen  rejoiced ;  Imogen  was 
bound  on  that  adventure— not  only  with  him,  but, 
and  it  was  this  that  gave  those  wide  wings  to  his 
feeling  for  her,  with  them — with  all  the  vast 
brotherhood  of  humanity.  Now  and  then,  to  be 
sure,  faint  echoes  in  her  of  her  father,  touches  of 
youthful  assurance,  youthful  grandiloquence,  stirred 
the  young  man 's  sense  of  humor ;  but  it  was  quickly 
quelled  by  an  irradiating  tenderness  that  showed  her 
limitations  as  symptoms  of  an  influence  that,  in  its 
foolish  aspects,  he  would  not  have  had  her  too 
clearly  recognize ;  her  beautiful,  filial  devotion  more 
than  compensated  for  her  filial  blindness — nay,  sanc 
tified  it ;  and  her  heavenly  face  had  but  to  turn  on 
him  for  him  to  envelop  all  her  little  solemnities  and 
importances  in  a  comprehending  reverence.  Jack 
thought  Imogen's  face  very  heavenly.  He  was  an 
artist  by  profession,  as  we  have  said,  taking  himself 
rather  seriously,  too,  but  the  artistic  perception  was 
so  strongly  colored  by  ethical  and  intellectual  pre 
occupations  that  the  spontaneous  satisfaction  in  the 
Eternal  Now  of  mere  beauty  was  rarely  his.  Cer 
tainly  he  saw  the  fluwer-like  texture  of  Imogen's 
skin;  the  way  in  which  the  light  azured  its  white- 


44  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ness  and  slid  upon  its  child-like  surfaces.  He  saw 
the  long  oval  of  the  face,  the  firm  and  gentle  lips, 
drawn  with  a  delicate  amplitude,  the  broad  hazel 
eyes  set  under  a  level  sweep  of  dark  eyebrow  and 
outlined,  not  shadowed,  so  clear,  so  wide  they  were, 
by  the  dark  lashes.  But  all  the  fresh  loveliness  of 
line,  surface,  color,  remained  an  intellectual  appre 
ciation  ;  while  what  touched,  what  penetrated,  were 
the  analogies  she  suggested,  the  lovely  soul  that  the 
lovely  face  vouched  for.  The  oval  of  her  face  and 
the  charming  squaring  of  her  eyes,  so  candid,  so 
unmysterious,  made  him  think  of  a  Botticelli  Ma 
donna  ;  and  her  long,  narrow  hands,  with  their 
square  finger-tips,  might  have  been  the  hands  of  a 
Botticelli  angel  holding  a  votive  offering  of  fruit 
and  flowers.  His  mind  seldom  rested  in  her  beauty, 
passing  at  once  through  it  to  what  it  expressed  of 
purity,  strength  and  serenity.  It  expressed  so  much 
of  these  that  he  had  never  paused  at  the  portals,  as 
it  were,  to  feel  the  defects  of  her  face.  Imogen's 
nose  was  too  small ;  neat  rather  than  beautiful.  Her 
eyes,  with  the  porcelain-like  quality  of  their  white, 
the  jewel-like  color  of  their  irises,  were  over-large; 
and  when  she  smiled,  which  she  did  often,  though 
with  more  gentleness  than  gaiety,  she  showed  an 
over-spacious  expanse  of  large  white  teeth.  For  the 
rest,  Imogen's  figure  was  that  of  the  typical  well- 
groomed,  well-trained,  American  girl,  long-limbed, 
slender,  rounded;  in  her  carriage  a  girlish  air  of 
consciousness ;  the  poise  of  her  broad  shoulders  and 
slender  hips  expressing  at  once  hygienic  and  fash 
ionable  ideals  that  reproved  slack  gaits  and  outlines. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  45 

As  they  walked,  as  they  talked,  watching  the  slow 
advance  of  the  great  steamer;  as  their  eyes  rested 
calmly  and  intelligently  on  each  other,  one  could  see 
that  the  girl's  relation  to  this  dear  friend  was  un 
touched  by  any  trace  of  coquetry  and  that  his  feel 
ing  for  her,  if  deep,  was  under  most  perfect  control. 

"It  's  over  a  year,  now,  since  I  saw  mama," 
Imogen  was  saying,  as  they  turned  again  from  a 
long  scrutiny  of  the  crowded  decks— the  distance 
was  as  yet  too  great  for  individual  recognition. 
''She  did  n't  come  over  this  summer  as  usual, — poor 
dear,  how  bitterly  she  must  regret  that  now,  though 
it  was  hardly  her  fault,  papa  and  I  fixed  on  our 
Western  trip  for  the  summer.  It  seems  a  very  long 
time  to  me." 

"And  to  me,"  said  Jack.  "It  's  only  a  year  since 
I  came  really  to  know  you ;  but  how  much  longer  it 
seems  than  that." 

"It  's  strange  that  we  should  know  each  other  so 
well  and  yet  that  you  have  never  seen  my  mother," 
said  Imogen.  "Is  that  she?  No,  she  is  not  so  tall. 
Poor  darling,  how  tired  and  sad  she  must  be." 

"You  are  tired  and  sad,  too,"  said  Jack. 

"Ah,  but  I  am  young— youth  can  bear  so  much 
better.  And,  besides,  I  don't  think  that  my  sadness 
would  ever  be  like  mama's.  You  see,  in  a  way,  I 
have  so  much  more  in  my  life.  I  should  never  sit 
down  in  my  sadness  and  let  it  overwhelm  me.  I 
should  use  it,  always.  It  is  strange  that  grief  should 
so  often  make  people  selfish.  It  ought,  rather,  to 
open  doors  for  us  and  give  us  wider  visions." 

He  was  so  sure  that  it  had  performed  these  offices 


46  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

for  her,  looking,  as  he  now  looked,  at  her  delicate 
profile,  turned  from  him  while  she  gazed  toward  the 
ship,  that  he  was  barely  conscious  of  the  little  tremor 
of  amusement  that  went  through  him  for  the  trite 
ness  of  her  speech.  Such  triteness  was  beautiful 
when  it  expressed  such  reality. 

"I  suppose  that  you  will  count  for  more,  now,  in 
your  mother's  life,"  he  said, — that  Imogen  should, 
seemingly,  have  counted  for  so  little  had  been  the 
frequent  subject  of  his  indignant  broodings.  "She 
will  make  you  her  object." 

Imogen  smiled  a  little.  "Is  n't  it  more  likely  that 
I  shall  make  her  mine  ?  one  of  mine  ?  But  you  don't 
know  mama  yet.  She  is,  in  a  way,  very  lovely — 
but  so  much  of  a  child.  So  much  younger— it  seems 
funny  to  say  it,  but  it  's  true — than  I  am." 

"Littler,"  Jack  amended,  "not  younger." 

But  Imogen,  while  accepting  the  amendment, 
would  n't  accept  the  negation. 

"Both,  I  'm  afraid,"  she  sighed. 

"Will  she  like  it  over  here?"  Jack  mused  more 
than  questioned. 

"Hardly,  since  she  has  always  lived  as  little  here 
as  she  could  manage." 

"Perhaps  she  will  want  to  take  you  back  to  Eng 
land,"  he  surmised,  conscious,  while  he  spoke  the 
almost  humorous  words,  of  a  very  firm  determination 
that  she  should  n't  do  so. 

Imogen  paused  in  her  walk  at  this,  fixing  upon 
him  eyes  very  grave  indeed.  "Take  me  back  to 
England  ?  Do  you  really  think  that  I  would  consent 
to  that  ?  Surely  you  know  me  better,  Jack  ? ' ' 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  47 

"I  think  I  do.  Only  you  might  yield  against  your 
will,  if  she  insisted." 

"Surely  you  know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  I 
would  never  yield  against  my  will,  if  I  knew  that 
my  will  was  right.  I  might  sacrifice  a  great  deal 
for  mama — I  am  prepared  to— but  never  that. 
Never,"  Imogen  repeated.  "There  are  some  things 
that  one  must  not  sacrifice.  Her  living  in  England 
is  a  whim ;  my  living  in  my  own  country  is  part  of 
my  religion." 

"I  know,  of  course,  dear  Imogen.  But,"  Jack 
was  argumentative,  "as  to  sacrifice,  say  that  it  was 
asked  of  you,  by  right.  Say,  for  instance,  that  you 
married  a  man  who  had  to  take  you  out  of  your  own 
country  ? ' ' 

She  smiled  a  little  at  the  stupid  surmise.  "That 
hardly  applies.  Besides,  I  would  never  marry  a 
man  who  was  not  one  of  my  own  people,  who  was 
not  a  part— as  I  am  a  part— of  the  Whole  I  live  for. 
My  life  is  here,  all  its  meaning  is  here— you  know  it 
—just  as  yours  is." 

"I  love  to  know  it— I  was  only  teasing  you." 

He  loved  to  know  it,  of  course.  Yet,  while  it  an 
swered  to  all  his  own  theories  that  the  person  should 
be  so  much  less  to  her  than  the  idea  the  person  lived 
for,  he  could  n't  but  feel  at  times,  with  a  rueful 
sense  of  unworthiness,  that  this  rare  capacity  in  her 
might  apply  in  most  unwelcome  fashion  to  his  own 
case.  In  Jack,  the  deep  wells  of  feeling  and  emotion 
were  barred  and  bolted  over  by  a  whole  complicated 
system  of  reticences ;  by  a  careful  sense  of  responsi 
bility,  not  only  toward  others,  but  toward  himself; 


48  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

by  a  disciplined  self-control  that  was  a  second  na 
ture.  But,  he  could  see  it  well  enough,  if  such  deep 
wells  there  were  in  Imogen,  they,  as  yet,  were  in  no 
need  of  barring  and  bolting.  Her  eyes  could  show  a 
quiet  acceptance  of  homage,  a  placid  conviction  of 
power,  a  tender  sympathy,  but  the  depth  and  trouble 
of  emotion  was  not  yet  in  them.  He  often  suspected 
that  he  was  nearer  to  her  when  he  talked  to  her  of 
causes  than  when  he  ventured,  now  and  then,  to 
talk  about  his  feelings.  There  was  always  the  un 
comfortable  surmise  that  the  man  who  could  offer 
a  more  equipped  faculty  for  the  adventure  of  the 
soul,  might  altogether  outdistance  him  with  Imogen. 
By  any  emotion,  any  appeal  or  passion  that  he  might 
show,  she  would  remain,  so  his  intuition  at  moments 
told  him,  quite  unbiased;  while  she  weighed  simply 
worth  against  worth,  and  weight— in  the  sense  of 
strength  of  soul — against  weight.  And  it  was  this 
intuition  that  made  self-control  and  reticence  easier 
than  they  might  otherwise  have  been.  His  theories 
might  assure  him  that  such  integrity  of  purpose 
was  magnificent;  his  manly  common-sense  told  him 
that  in  a  wife  one  wanted  to  be  sure  of  the  taint  of 
personal  preference ;  so  that,  while  he  knew  that  he 
would  never  need  to  weigh  Imogen's  worth  against 
anybody  else's,  he  watched  and  waited  until  some 
unawakened  capacity  in  her  should  be  able  happily 
to  respond  to  the  more  human  aspects  of  life.  Mean 
while  the  steamer  had  softly  glided  into  the  dock  and 
the  two  young  people  at  last  descried  upon  the  crowded 
decks  the  tall,  familial-  figure  of  Eddy  Upton,  like 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  49 

Imogen  in  his  fairness,  clearness,  but  with  a  more 
masculine  jut  of  nose  and  chin,  sharper  lines  of  brow 
and  cheek  and  lip.  And  beside  Eddy— Jack  hardly 
needed  the  controlled  quiet  of  Imogen's  ''There  's 
mama"  to  identify  the  figure  in  black. 

She  leaned  there,  high  and  far,  on  the  deck  of  the 
great  steamer  that  loomed  above  their  heads,  almost 
ominous  in  its  gigantic  bulk  and  darkness ;  she  leaned 
there  against  the  rosy  sky,  her  face  intent,  search 
ing,  bent  upon  the  fluttering,  shouting  throng  be 
neath  ;  and  for  Jack,  in  this  first  impression  of  her, 
before  she  had  yet  found  Imogen,  there  was  something 
pathetic  in  the  earnestness  of  her  searching  gaze, 
something  that  softened  the  rigors  of  his  disappro 
bation.  But,  already,  too,  he  fancied  that  he  caught 
the  expected  note  of  the  frivolous  in  the  outline  of 
her  fur-lined  coat,  in  the  grace  of  her  little  hat. 

Still  she  sought,  her  face  pale  and  grave,  while, 
with  an  imperceptible  movement,  the  steamer  glided 
forward,  and  now,  as  Imogen  raised  her  muff  in  a 
long,  steady  wave,  her  eyes  at  last  found  her  daugh 
ter  and,  smiling,  smiling  eagerly  down  upon  them,  she 
leaned  far  over  the  deck  to  wave  her  answer.  She  put 
her  hand  on  her  son's  arm,  pointing  them  out  to  him, 
and  Eddy,  also  finding  them,  smiled  too,  but  with 
his  rather  cool  kindness,  raising  his  hat  and  giving 
Jack  a  recognizing  nod.  It  was  then  as  if  he  intro 
duced  Jack.  Jack  saw  her  question,  saw  him  as 
sent,  and  her  smile  went  from  Imogen  to  him  envel 
oping  him  with  its  mild  radiance. 

"She  is  very  lovely,  your  mother,  as  you  say,'' 


50  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Jack  commented,  feeling  a  little  breathless  over  this 
silent  meeting  of  forces  that  he  must  think  of  as 
hostile,  and  finding  nothing  better  to  say. 

Imogen,  who  had  continued  steadily  to  wave  her 
muff,  welcoming,  but  for  her  part  unsmiling,  an 
swered,  "Yes." 

"I  hope  that  she  won't  mind  my  being  here,  in 
the  way,  after  a  fashion, ' '  said  Jack. 

"She  won't  mind,"  said  Imogen. 

He  knew  the  significance  of  her  voice ;  displeasure 
was  in  its  gentleness,  a  quiet  endurance  of  distress. 
It  struck  him  then,  in  a  moment,  that  it  was  rather 
out  of  place  for  Mrs.  Upton  to  smile  so  radiantly  at 
such  a  home-coming.  Not  that  the  smile  had  been  a 
gay  one.  It  had  shone  out  after  her  search  for  her 
daughter's  face;  for  the  finding  of  it  and  for  him 
it  had  continued  to  shine.  It  was  like  sunlight  on 
a  sad  white  day  of  mist;  it  did  not  dispel  mournful- 
ness,  it  seemed  only  to  irradiate  it.  But — to  have 
smiled  at  all.  With  Imogen's  eyes  he  saw,  suddenly, 
that  tears  would  have  been  the  more  appropriate 
greeting  and,  in  looking  back  at  the  girl  once  more, 
he  saw  that  her  own,  as  if  in  vicarious  atonement, 
were  running  down  her  cheeks.  She,  then,  felt  a 
doubled  suffering  and  his  heart  hardened  against 
the  woman  who  had  caused  it. 

The  two  travelers  had  disappeared  and  the  decks 
were  filled  with  the  jostling  hurry  of  final  departure. 
Jack  and  Imogen  moved  to  take  their  places  by  the 
long  gangway  that  slanted  up  from  the  dock. 

He  said  nothing  to  her  of  her  tears,  silent  before 
this  subtle  grief ;  perhaps,  for  all  his  love  and  sym- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  51 

pathy,  a  little  disconcerted  by  its  demonstration,  and 
it  was  Imogen  who  spoke,  murmuring,  as  they  stood 
together,  looking  up,  "Poor,  poor  papa." 

Yes,  that  had  been  the  hurt,  to  see  her  dead  put 
aside,  almost  forgotten,  in  the  mother's  over-facile 
smile. 

The  passengers  came  trooping  down  the  gangway, 
with  an  odd  buoyancy  of  step  caused  by  the  steep 
incline,  and  Jack,  for  all  his  expectancy,  had  eyes, 
appreciative  and  critical,  for  the  procession  of  his 
country-people.  Stout,  short  men,  embodying  purely 
economic  functions,  with  rudimentary  features, 
slightly  embossed,  as  it  were,  upon  pouch-like  faces. 
Thin,  young  men,  whose  lean  countenances  had  some 
what  the  aspect  of  steely  machinery,  apt  for  swift, 
ruthless,  utilitarian  processes.  Bloodless  old  men, 
many  of  whom  looked  like  withered,  weary  children 
adorned  with  whitened  hair.  The  average  manhood 
of  America,  with  its  general  air  of  cheap  and  hasty 
growth,  but  varied  here  and  there  by  a  higher  type ; 
an  athletic  collegian,  auspiciously  Grecian  in  length 
of  limb,  width  of  brow,  deep  placidity  of  eye ;  varied 
by  a  massive  senatorial  head  or  so,  tolerant,  humor 
ous,  sagacious;  varied  by  a  stalwart  Westerner,  and 
by  the  weedier  scholar,  sensitive,  self-conscious,  too 
much  of  the  spiritual  and  too  little  of  the  animal  in 
the  meager  body  and  over-intelligent  face. 

There  was  a  certain  discrepancy,  in  dress  and 
bodily  well-being,  between  the  feminine  and  the 
masculine  portion  of  the  procession;  many  of  the 
heavy  matrons,  wide-hipped,  well-corseted,  benig 
nant  and  commanding  of  mien,  were  ominously  sug- 


52  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

gestive,  followed  as  they  were  by  their  fragile  hus 
bands,  of  the  female  spider  and  her  doomed,  inferior, 
though  necessary,  mate.  The  young  girls  of  the 
happier  type  resembled  Imogen  Upton  in  grace,  in 
strength,  in  calm  and  in  assurance ;  the  less  fortunate 
were  sharp,  sallow,  anxious-eyed ;  and  the  children 
were  either  rosy,  well-mannered,  and  confident,  or 
ill-mannered,  over-mature,  but  also,  always,  confi 
dent. 

Highly  equipped  with  every  graceful  quality  of 
his  race,  not  a  touch  of  the  male  spider  about  him, 
Eddy's  head  appeared  at  last,  proud,  delicate  and 
strong.  His  mother,  carrying  a  small  dog,  was  on 
his  arm,  and,  as  she  emerged  before  the  eyes  that 
watched  for  her,  she  was  smiling  again  at  something 
that  Eddy  had  said  to  her.  Then  her  eyes  found 
them,  Jack  and  Imogen,  so  near  now,  sentinels  before 
the  old  life,  that  her  smile,  her  aspect,  her  very  love 
liness,  seemed  to  menace,  and  Jack  felt  that  she 
caught  a  new  gravity  from  the  stern  gentleness  of 
Imogen's  gaze;  that  she  adjusted  her  features  to 
meet  it ;  that,  with  a  little  shock,  she  recognized  the 
traces  of  weeping  on  her  daughter's  face  and  saw, 
in  his  own  intentionally  hardened  look,  that  she  had 
tuned  herself  to  a  wrong  pitch  and  had  been,  all 
unconsciously,  jarring. 

He  could  n't  but  own  that  her  readjustment,  if 
readjustment  it  was,  was  very  beautifully  done. 
Tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  too.  He  saw,  as  she  neared 
them,  that  her  face  was  pale  and  weary;  it  looked 
ever  so  gently,  ever  so  sadly,  perhaps  almost  timidly, 
at  her  daughter,  and  as  she  came  to  them  she  put 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  53 

out  her  hand  to  Imogen,  laid  hold  on  her  and  held 
her  without  speaking  while  they  all  moved  away 
together. 

The  tears  of  quick  sympathy  had  risen  to  Jack's 
own  eyes  and  he  stood  apart  while  the  mother  and 
daughter  kissed.  After  that,  and  when  they  had 
gone  on  a  little  before  him  and  Eddy,  Mrs.  Upton 
turned  to  him,  and  if  she  readjusted  herself  she 
did  n't,  as  it  were,  retract,  for  the  smile  again 
rested  on  him  while  Eddy  presented  him  to  her.  He 
saw  then  that  she  had  suffered,  though  with  a  suf 
fering  different  from  any  that  he  would  have  thought 
of  as  obvious.  How  or  what  she  had  suffered  he 
could  not  tell,  but  the  pale,  weary  features,  for  all 
their  smile,  reassured  him.  She  was  n't,  at  all 
events,  a  heartless,  a  flippant  woman, 

Eddy  and  Mrs.  Upton's  maid  remained  behind  to 
do  battle  with  the  custom-house,  and  Jack,  with 
Imogen  and  her  mother,  got  into  the  capacious  cab 
that  was  waiting  for  them. 

The  streets  in  this  mean  quarter  were  deep  in 
mud.  The  snow  everywhere  had  been  trampled  into 
liquid  blackness,  and  the  gaunt  horses  that  galloped 
along  the  wharfs  dragging  noisy  vans  and  carts 
were  splashed  all  over.  It  might  have  been  some 
sordid  quarter  of  an  Italian  town  that  they  drove 
through,  so  oddly  foreign  were  the  disheveled 
houses,  their  predominant  color  a  heavy,  glaring  red. 
Men  in  white  uniforms  were  shoveling  snow  from 
the  pavements.  The  many  negro  countenances  in 
the  hurrying  crowds  showed  blue  tints  in  the  bitter 
air.  Coming  suddenly  to  a  wide,  mean  avenue, 


54  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

when  the  carriage  lurched  and  swayed  on  the 
street-car  tracks,  they  heard,  mingled  in  an  incon 
ceivably  ugly  uproar,  the  crash  and  whine  of  the 
cable-cars  about  them,  and  the  thunder  of  the  ele 
vated-railway  above  their  heads. 

Jack,  sensitive  to  others'  impressions,  wondered 
if  this  tumultuous  ugliness  made  more  dreary  to 
Mrs.  Upton  the  dreary  circumstances  of  her  home 
coming.  There  was  no  mitigation  of  dreariness  to 
be  hoped  for  from  Imogen,  who  was  probably  ab 
sorbed  in  her  own  bitter  reflections.  She  gazed 
steadily  out  of  the  window,  replying  only  with 
quiet  monosyllables  to  her  mother's  tentative  ques 
tions;  her  face  keeping  its  look  of  endurance.  One 
could  infer  from  it  that  had  she  not  so  controlled 
herself  she  must  have  wept,  and  sitting  before  the 
mother  and  daughter  Jack  felt  much  awkwardness 
in  his  position.  If  their  meeting  were  not  to  be  one 
with  more  conventional  surface  he  really  ought  not  to 
have  been  invited  to  share  it.  Imogen,  poor  darling, 
had  all  his  sympathy;  she  had  n't  reckoned  with  the 
difficulties;  she  had  n't  reckoned  with  that  hurting 
smile,  with  the  sharp  reawakening  of  the  vicarious 
sense  of  wrong;  but,  all  the  same,  before  her  look, 
her  silence,  he  could  but  feel  for  her  mother,  and 
feel,  too,  a  keener  discomfort  from  the  fact  that  his 
inopportune  presence  must  make  Mrs.  Upton's  dis 
comfort  the  greater. 

Mrs.  Upton  stroked  her  tiny  dog,  who,  fulfilling 
all  Jack's  conceptions  of  costly  frivolity,  was 
wrapped  in  a  well-cut  coat,  in  spite  of  which  he 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  55 

was  shivering,  from  excitement  as  much  as  from 
cold,  and  her  bright,  soft  gaze  went  from  him  to 
Imogen.  She  did  n't  acquiesce  for  long  in  the 
silence.  Leaning  forward  to  him  presently  she 
began  to  ask  him  questions  about  Boston,  the  dear 
old  great-aunt ;  to  make  comments,  some  reminiscent, 
some  interrogative,  upon  the  scenes  they  passed 
through;  to  lead  him  so  tactfully  into  talk  that  he 
found  himself  answering  and  assenting  almost  as 
fluently  as  if  Imogen  in  her  corner  had  not  kept 
those  large,  sad  eyes  fixed  on  the  passing  houses. 
So  mercifully  did  her  interest  and  her  ease  lift  him 
from  discomfort  that,  with  a  sharp  twinge  of  self- 
reproach,  he  more  than  once  asked  himself  if  Imogen 
found  something  a  little  disloyal  in  his  willingness 
to  be  helped.  One  could  n't,  all  the  same,  remain 
at  the  dreadful  depth  where  her  silence  plunged 
them;  such  depths  were  too  intimate.  Mrs.  Upton 
had  felt  that.  It  was  because  she  was  not  intimate 
that  she  smiled  upon  him;  it  was  because  she  in 
tended  to  hold  them  both  firmly  on  the  surface  that 
she  was  so  kind.  He  watched  her  face  with  wonder, 
and  a  little  fear,  for  which  he  was  angry  with  him 
self.  He  noted  the  three  grains  de  beaute  and  the 
smile  that  seemed  to  break  high  on  her  cheek,  in  a 
small  nick,  like  that  on  the  cheek  of  a  Japanese 
doll.  She  frightened  him,  made  him  feel  shy,  yet 
made  him  feel  at  ease,  too,  as  though  her  own  were 
contagious;  and  his  impression  of  her  was  softly 
permeated  with  the  breath  of  violets.  Jack  disap 
proved  of  perfumes;  but  he  really  could  n't  tell 


56  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

whether  it  was  n  't  Mrs.  Upton 's  gaze  only,  the  sweet 
oddity  of  her  smile,  that,  by  some  trick  of  associa 
tion,  suggested  the  faint  haze  of  fragrance. 

They  reached  the  long,  far  sweep  of  Fifth  Avenue, 
piled  high  with  snow— dazzling  in  white,  blue,  gold 
—on  either  side,  and  they  turned  presently  into  a 
street  of  brownstone  houses,  houses  pleasant,  peace 
ful,  with  an  air  of  happy  domesticity. 

Mrs.  Upton's  eyes,  while  the  cab  advanced  with 
many  jolts  among  the  heaps  of  snow,  fixed  themselves 
on  one  of  these  houses,  and  Jack  fancied  that  he 
saw  in  her  glance  a  whole  army  of  alarmed  memories 
forcibly  beaten  back.  Here  she  had  come  as  a  bride 
and  from  here,  not  three  weeks  ago,  her  dead  hus 
band  had  gone  with  only  his  children  beside  him. 
Now,  if  ever,  she  should  feel  remorse.  Whether  she 
did  or  not  he  could  not  tell,  but  the  eyes  with  which 
she  greeted  her  old  home  were  not  happy. 

Imogen,  as  they  alighted,  spoke  at  last,  asking 
him  to  stay  to  lunch.  He  recognized  magnanimity 
in  her  glance.  He  had  seemed  to  ignore  her  hurt, 
and  she  forgave  him,  understanding  his  helplessness. 
But  though  her  mother  seconded  her  invitation  with, 
"Do,  you  must  be  so  tired  and  hungry,  after  all 
these  hours,"  Jack  excused  himself.  Already  he 
thought,  a  woman  with  such  a  manner  as  Mrs. 
Upton's— if  manner  were  indeed  the  word  for  such 
a  gliding  simplicity— must  wonder  what  in  the  name 
of  heaven  he  did  there.  She  was  simple,  she  was 
gliding ;  but  she  was  not  near. 

"May  I  come  in  soon  and  see  you?"  he  said  to 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  57 

Imogen  while  they  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stone 
steps.  And,  with  at  last  her  own  smile,  sad  but 
sweet,  for  him,  she  answered,  "As  soon  as  you  will, 
dear  Jack.  You  know  how  much  of  strength  and 
comfort  you  mean  to  me. 


JACK,  however,  did  not  go  for  three  or 
four  days,  giving  them  plenty  of  time, 
as  he  told  himself,  to  get  used  to  each 
other's  excesses  or  lacks  of  grief.  And 
as  he  waited  for  Imogen  in  the  long 
drawing-room  that  had  been  the  setting  of  so  many 
of  their  communings,  he  wondered  what  adjustment 
the  mother  and  daughter  had  come  to. 

The  aspect  of  the  drawing-room  was  unchanged; 
changelessness  had  always  been  for  him  its  character 
istic  mark ;  in  essentials,  he  felt  sure,  it  had  not 
changed  since  the  days  of  old  Mrs.  Upton,  the 
present  Mrs.  Upton's  long  deceased  mother-in-law. 
Only  a  touch  here  and  there  showed  the  passage  of 
time.  It  was  continuous  with  the  dining-room,  so 
that  it  was  but  one  long  room  that  crossed  all  the 
depth  of  the  house,  tall  windows  at  the  back,  heavily 
draped,  echoing  dimly  the  windows  of  the  front  that 
looked  out  upon  the  snowy,  glittering  street.  The 
inner  half  could  be  shut  away  by  folding-doors,  and 
its  highly  polished  sideboard,  chairs,  table,  a  silver 
epergne  towering  upon  it,  glimmered  in  a  dusky 
element  that  relegated  it,  when  not  illuminated  for 
use,  to  a  mere  ghostly  decorativeness.  By  contrast, 
the  drawing-room  was  vivid.  Its  fringed  and  but 
toned  furniture, — crimson  brocade  set  in  a  dark  carved 

68 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  59 

wood,  the  dangling  lusters  of  the  huge  chandelier, 
the  elaborate  Sevres  vases  on  the  mantelpiece,  flank 
ing  a  bronze  clock  portentously  gloomy,  expressed 
old  Mrs.  Upton's  richly  solid  ideals;  but  these  per 
manent  uglinesses  distressed  Jack  less  than  the 
pompous  and  complacent  taste  of  the  later  additions. 
A  pretentious  cabinet  of  late  Italian  Renaissance 
work  stood  in  a  corner ;  the  dark  marble  mantelpiece, 
that  looked  like  a  sarcophagus,  was  incongruously 
draped  with  an  embroidered  Italian  cope,  and  a 
pseudo-Correggio  Madonna,  encompassed  with  a 
wilderness  of  gilt  frame,  smiled  a  pseudo-smile  from 
the  embossed  paper  of  the  walls.  It  was  one  of 
Jack's  little  trials  to  hear  Imogen  refer  to  this 
trophy  with  placid  conviction. 

Yet,  for  all  its  solemn  stupidity,  the  room  was 
not  altogether  unpleasing;  it  signified  something, 
were  it  only  an  indifference  to  fashion.  It  was,  fun. 
nily,  almost  Spartan,  for  all  the  carving,  the  cush, 
ioning,  the  crimson,  so  little  concession  did  it  make 
to  other  people 's  standards  or  to  small,  happy  minor 
uses.  Mr.  Upton  and  his  daughter  had  not  changed 
it  because  they  had  other  things  to  think  of;  and 
they  thought  of  these  things  not  in  the  drawing-room 
but  in  the  large  library  up-stairs.  There  one  could 
find  the  personal  touches,  that,  but  for  the  cope,  the 
cabinet,  the  Correggio,  were  lacking  below.  There  the 
many  photographs  from  the  Italian  primitives,  the 
many  gracious  Donatello  and  Delia  Robbia  bas- 
reliefs,  expressed  something  of  Imogen,  too,  though 
Jack  always  felt  that  Imogen's  esthetic  side  ex 
pressed  what  was  not  very  essential  in  her. 


60  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

While  he  waited  now,  he  had  paused  at  last  before 
two  portraits.  He  had  often  so  paused  while 
waiting  for  Imogen.  To-night  it  was  with  a  new 
curiosity. 

They  hung  opposite  the  Correggio  and  on  either 
side  of  the  great  mirror  that  rose  from  the  mantel 
piece  to  the  cornice.  One  was  of  a  young  man 
dressed  in  the  fashion  of  twenty-five  years  before, 
dressed  with  a  rather  self-conscious  negligence.  He 
was  pale,  earnest,  handsome,  though  his  nose  was  too 
small  and  his  eyes  too  large.  A  touch  of  the  his 
trionic  was  in  his  attitude,  in  his  dark  hair,  tossed 
carelessly,  in  the  unnecessarily  weighty  and  steady 
look  of  his  dark  eyes,  even  in  the  slight  smile  of  his 
firm,  full  lips,  a  smile  too  well-adapted,  as  it  were, 
to  the  needs  of  any  interlocutor.  Beneath  his  arm 
was  a  book;  a  long,  distinguished  hand  hanging 
slackly.  Jack  turned  away  with  a  familiar  impa 
tience.  In  twenty-five  years  Mr.  Upton  had  changed 
very  little.  It  was  much  the  same  face  that  he  had 
known ;  in  especial,  the  slack,  self-conscious  hand, 
the  smile — always  so  much  more  for  himself  than 
for  you— were  familiar.  The  hand,  the  necktie,  the 
smile,  so  deep,  so  dark,  so  empty,  were  all,  Jack  was 
inclined  to  suspect,  that  there  had  ever  been  of  Mr. 
Upton. 

The  other  portrait,  painted  with  the  sleek  conven- 
tion  of  that  earlier  epoch,  was  of  a  woman  in  a  ball- 
dress.  The  portrait  was  by  a  French  master  and 
under  his  brush  the  sitter  had  taken  on  the  look  of  a 
Feuillet  heroine.  She  was  gay,  languid,  sentimental, 
and  extraordinarily  pretty.  Her  hair  was  dressed 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  61 

in  a  bygone  fashion,  drawn  smoothly  up  from  the 
little  ears,  coiled  high  and  falling  across  her  fore 
head  in  a  light,  straight  fringe.  Her  wonderful 
white  shoulders  rose  from  a  wonderfully  low  white 
bodice;  a  bracelet  of  emeralds  was  on  her  arm,  a 
spray  of  jasmine  in  her  fingers;  she  was  evidently 
a  girl,  yet  in  her  apparel  was  a  delicate  splendor,  in 
her  gaze  a  candid  assurance,  that  marked  her  as  an 
American  girl.  And  she  expressed  charmingly,  with 
sincerity  as  it  were,  a  frivolous  convention.  This 
was  Miss  Cray,  a  year  or  so  before  her  marriage 
with  Mr.  Upton.  The  portrait  had  been  painted  in 
Paris,  where,  orphaned,  lovely,  but  not  largely  dow 
ered,  she  had,  under  the  wing  of  an  aunt  domiciled 
in  France  for  many  years  and  bearing  one  of  its 
oldest  names,  failed  to  make  the  brilliant  match 
that  had  been  hoped  for  her.  This  touch  of  France 
in  girlhood  echoed  an  earlier  impress.  Imogen  had 
told  him  that  her  mother  had  been  educated  for 
some  years  in  a  French  convent,  deposited  there  by 
pleasure-loving  parents  during  European  wander 
ings,  and  Imogen  had  intimated  that  her  mother's 
frequent  returns  to  her  native  land  had  never  quite 
effaced  alien  and  regrettable  points  of  view.  Be 
fore  this  portrait,  Jack  was  accustomed,  not  to 
impatience,  but  to  a  gaze  of  rather  ironic  compre 
hension.  It  had  always  explained  to  him  so  much. 
But  to-night  he  found  himself  looking  at  it  with  an 
intentness  in  which  was  a  touched  curiosity;  in 
which,  also,  and  once  more  he  was  vexed  with  him 
self  for  feeling  it,  was  an  anxiety,  almost  a  fear. 
Of  course  it  had  n't  been  like,  even  then,  he  was 


62  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

surer  than  ever  of  that  to-night,  with  his  memory 
of  the  pale  face  smiling  down  at  him  and  at  Imogen 
from  the  deck  of  the  great  steamer.  The  painter 
had  seen  the  mask  only ;  even  then  there  had  been 
more  to  see.  And  sure,  as  he  had  never  been  before, 
of  all  that  there  must  have  been  besides  to  see,  he 
wondered  with  a  new  wonder  how  she  had  come  to 
marry  Mr.  Upton. 

He  glanced  back  at  him.  Handsome?  Yes.  Dis 
tinguished?  Yes;  there  was  no  trace  of  the  shoddy 
in  his  spiritual  histrionics.  He  had  been  fired  by 
love,  no  doubt,  far  beyond  his  own  chill  complacency. 
Such  a  butterfly  girl,  falling  with,  perhaps,  bruised 
wings  from  the  high,  hard  glare  of  worldly  ambi 
tions,  more  of  others  for  her  than  her  own  for  her 
self—of  that  he  felt,  also  quite  newly  sure  to-night- 
such  a  girl  had  thought  Mr.  Upton,  no  doubt,  a  very 
noble  creature  and  herself  happy  and  fortunate. 
And  she  had  been  very  young. 

He  was  still  looking  up  at  Miss  Cray  when  Imogen 
came  in.  He  felt  sure,  from  his  first  glance  at  her, 
that  nothing  had  happened,  during  the  interval  of 
his  abstention,  to  deepen  her  distress.  In  her  falling 
and  folding  black  she  was  serene  and  the  look  of 
untroubled  force  he  knew  so  well  was  in  her  eyes. 
She  had  taken  the  measure  of  the  grown-up  butterfly 
and  found  it  easy  of  management.  He  felt  with 
relief  that  the  mother  could  have  threatened  none 
of  the  things  they  held  dear.  And,  indeed,  in  his 
imagination,  her  spirit  seemed  to  flutter  over  them 
in  the  solid,  solemn  room,  reassuring  through  its 
very  lightness  and  purposelessness. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  Imogen  said,  after  she 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  63 

had  shaken  his  hand  and  they  had  seated  themselves 
on  the  sofa  that  stretched  along  the  wall  under  the 
Correggio.  "I  have  been  sorry  about  the  other 
day." 

"Oh!"  he  answered  vaguely,  not  quite  sure  for 
what  the  regret  was. 

"I  ought  to  have  mastered  myself;  been  more  able 
to  play  the  trivial  part,  as  you  did;  that  was  such 
real  kindness  in  you,  Jack,  dear.  I  could  n't  have 
pretended  gaiety,  but  I  did  n't  intend  to  cast  a 
gloom.  It  only  became  that,  I  suppose,  when  I  was 
—so  hurt." 

He  understood  now.  "By  there  not  being  gloom 
enough  ? ' ' 

"If  you  like  to  put  it  so.  To  see  her  smile  like 
that!" 

Jack  was  sorry  for  her,  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
sorry  for  the  butterfly. 

"Yes,  I  know  how  you  must  have  felt.  But,  it  was 
natural,  you  know.  One  smiles  involuntarily  at  a 
meeting,  however  sad  its  background.  I  believe 
that  you  would  have  smiled  if  she  had  n  't. " 

Imogen's  clear  eyes  were  upon  him  while  he  thus 
shared  with  her  his  sense  of  mitigations  and  she  an 
swered  without  a  pause :  ' '  Yes,  I  could  have  smiled 
at  her.  That  would  have  been  different." 

"You  mean— that  you  had  a  right  to  smile?" 

"I  can't  see  how  she  could,"  said  Imogen  in  a  low 
voice,  not  answering  his  question;  thinking,  prob 
ably,  that  it  answered  itself.  And  she  went  on : 
"I  was  ready,  you  know,  to  help  her  to  bear  it  all, 
with  my  whole  strength ;  but,  and  it  is  that  that 
still  hurts  me  so,  she  does  n't  seem  to  know  that 


64  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

she  needs  help.  She  does  n't  seem  to  be  bearing 
anything. ' ' 

Jack  was  silent,  feeling  here  that  they  skirted  too 
closely  ground  upon  which,  with  Imogen,  he  never 
ventured.  He  had  brought  from  his  study  of  the 
portraits  a  keener  sense  of  how  much  Mrs.  Upton 
had  to  bear  no  longer. 

"But,"  Imogen  continued,  oddly  echoing  his  own 
sense  of  deeper  insights,  "I  already  understand  her 
so  much  better  than  I  've  ever  done.  I  've  never 
come  so  near.  Never  seen  so  clearly  how  little  there 
is  to  see.  She  's  still  essentially  that,  you  know," 
and  she  pointed  to  the  French  portrait  that,  with 
softly,  prettily  mournful  eyes,  gazed  out  at  them. 

"The  butterfly  thing,"  Jack  suggested  rather  than 
acquiesced. 

"The  butterfly  thing,"  she  accepted. 

But  Jack  went  on :  "  Not  only  that,  though. 
There  is,  I  'm  very  sure,  more  to  see.  She  is  so — so 
sensible. ' ' 

' '  Sensible  ? ' '  again  Imogen  accepted.  ' '  Well,  is  n  't 
that  portrait  sensible?  Does  n't  that  lovely,  luxu 
rious  girl  see  and  want  all  the  happy,  the  easy  things 
of  life?  It  is  sensible,  of  course,  clearly  to  know 
what  they  are,  and  firmly  to  make  for  them.  That  's 
just  what  I  recognize  now  in  her,  that  all  she  wants 
is  to  make  things  easy,  to  glisser." 

"Yes,  I  can  believe  that,"  he  murmured,  a  little 
dazed  by  her  clear  decisiveness ;  he  often  felt  Imogen 
to  be  so  much  more  clear-sighted,  so  much  more 
clever  than  himself  when  it  came  to  judgments  and 
insights,  that  he  could  only  at  the  moment  acquiesce, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  65 

through  helplessness.  "I  suppose  that  is  the  essen 
tial — the  desire  of  ease." 

"And  it  hurts  you  that  I  should  be  able  to  see  it, 
to  say  it,  of  my  mother."  Her  eyes,  with  no  hard 
ness,  no  reproach,  probed  him,  too.  She  almost  made 
him  feel  unworthy  of  the  trust  she  showed  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  "because  I  know 
that  it  's  only  to  a  friend  who  so  understands  you, 
who  so  cares  for  all  that  comes  into  your  life. ' ' 

"Only  to  such  a  friend,  indeed,"  she  returned 
gently. 

' '  Have  they  been  hard,  these  days  ? "  he  asked  her, 
atoning  to  himself  for  the  momentary  shrinking  that 
she  had  detected. 

"Yes,  they  have,"  she  answered,  "and  the  more 
so  from  my  seeing  all  her  efforts  to  keep  them  soft ; 
as  if  it  was  ease  /  wanted !  But  I  have  faced  it  all. ' ' 

"What  else  has  there  been  to  face?" 

She  said  nothing  for  some  moments,  looking  at  him 
with  a  thoughtful  openness  that,  he  felt,  was  almost 
marital  in  its  sharing  of  silence. 

"She  's  against  everything,  everything,"  she  said 
at  last. 

"You  mean  in  the  way  we  feared? — that  she  '11 
try  to  change  things  ? ' ' 

"She  '11  not  seem  to  try.  She  '11  seem  to  accept. 
But  she  's  against  my  country;  against  my  life; 
against  me." 

"Well,  if  she  accepts,  or  seems  to,  that  will  make 
it  easy  for  you.  There  will  be  nothing  to  fight,  to 
oppose." 

"Don't  use  her  word,  Jack.    She  will  make  it  easy 


66  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

on  the  surface;  but  it  's  that  that  will  be  so  hard 
for  me  to  bear ;  the  surface  ease  over  the  hidden  dis 
cord." 

"You  may  resolve  the  discord.  Give  her  time  to 
grow  her  roots.  How  can  you  expect  anything  but 
effort  now,  in  this  soil  that  she  can't  but  associate 
with  mistakes  and  sorrows  ? ' ' 

"The  mistakes  and  sorrows  were  in  her,  not  in 
the  soil,"  said  Imogen;  "but  don't  think  that 
though  I  find  it  hard,  I  don't  face  it;  don't  think 
that  through  it  all  I  have  n  't  my  faith.  That  is  just 
what  I  am  going  to  do :  give  her  time,  and  help  her 
to  grow  with  all  the  strength  and  love  there  is  in  me. ' ' 

Something  naughty,  something  rebellious  and  dis 
satisfied  in  him  was  vaguely  stirring  and  muttering ; 
he  feared  that  she  might  see  into  him  again  and  give 
it  a  name,  although  he  could  only  have  given  it  the 
old  name  of  a  humorous  impatience  with  her  as 
sured  Tightness.  Really,  she  was  so  over-right  that 
she  almost  irked  and  irritated  him,  dear  and  beloved 
as  she  was.  One  could  only  call  it  over-rightness,  for 
was  n't  what  she  said  the  simple  truth,  just  as  he 
had  always  seen  it,  just  as  she  had  always  known 
that,  with  her,  he  saw  it  ?  She  had  this  queer,  light 
burden  suddenly  on  her  hands,  so  much  more  of  a 
burden  for  being  so  light,  and  if  her  own  weight 
and  wisdom  became  a  little  too  emphatic  in  dealing 
with  it,  how  could  he  reproach  her?  He  did  n't  re 
proach  her,  of  course ;  but  he  was  afraid  lest  she 
should  see  that  he  found  her,  well,  a  little  funny. 

"What  does  she  do  with  herself?"  he  asked,  turn 
ing  hastily  from  his  consciousness  of  amusement. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  67 

Imogen's  pearly  face,  bent  on  him  with  such  con 
fidence,  made  him,  once  more,  ashamed  of  himself. 

"She  has  seen  a  good  many  of  her  friends.  "We 
have  had  quite  a  stream  of  fashionable,  furbelowed 
dames  trooping  up  the  steps;  very  few  of  them 
people  that  papa  and  I  cared  to  keep  in  touch  with ; 
you  know  his  dislike  for  the  merely  pleasure-seeking 
side  of  life.  And  she  has  seen  the  dear  Delancy 
Pottses,  too,  and  was  very  nice  to  them,  one  of  the 
cases  of  seeming  to  accept;  I  saw  well  enough  that 
they  were  no  more  to  her  than  quaint  insects  she 
must  do  her  duty  by.  And  she  has  been  very  busy 
with  business,  closeted  every  day  with  Mr.  Haliwell. 
And  she  takes  a  walk  with  me  when  I  can  spare  the 
time,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  she  sits  in  her  room 
dressed  in  a  wonderful  tea-gown  and  reads  French 
memoirs,  just  as  she  used  always  to  do. ' ' 

Jack  was  smiling,  amused,  now,  in  no  way  that 
needed  hiding,  by  her  smooth  flow  of  description. 
"You  must  take  her  down  to  the  girls'  club  some 
day,"  he  suggested,  "and  to  see  your  cripples  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  Get  her  interested,  you  know; 
give  her  something  else  to  think  of  besides  French 
memoirs. ' ' 

"Indeed,  I  'm  going  to  try  to.  Though  among 
my  girls  I  'm  not  sure  that  she  would  be  a  very 
wise  experiment.  Such  an  ondulee,  parfumee,  pol 
ished  person  with  such  fashionable  mourning  would 
be,  perhaps,  a  little  resented." 

"You  dress  very  charmingly,  yourself,  my  deai 
Imogen. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  quite  differently.     Mamma's  is  fashion 


68  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

at  its  very  flower  of  subtle  discretion.  My  clothes, 
why,  they  are  of  any  time  you  will."  She  swept 
aside  her  wing-like  sleeves  to  show  the  Madonna- 
like  lines  of  her  dress.  "A  factory  girl  could  wear 
just  the  same  shape  if  she  wanted  to." 

"And  she  does  n't  want  to,  foolish  girl?  She 
wants  to  wear  your  mother 's  kind  instead  1 ' ' 

' '  She  would  dimly  recognize  it  as  the  unattainable 
perfection  of  what  she  wants.  It  would  pierce." 

"Make  for  envy,  you  think?" 

"Well,  I  can't  see  that  she  would  do  them  any 
good,"  said  Imogen,  now  altogether  in  her  lighter, 
happier  mood,  "but  since  they  may  do  her  good  I 
must,  I  think,  take  her  there  some  day. ' ' 

"And  am  I  to  do  her  some  good?  Am  I  to  see 
her  to-night?"  Jack  asked,  feeling  that  though  her 
humor  a  little  jarred  on  him  he  could  do  nothing 
better  than  echo  it.  Imogen,  now,  had  one  of  her 
frankest,  prettiest  looks. 

"Do  you  know,  she  is  almost  too  discreet,  poor 
dear,"  she  said.  "She  wants  me  to  see  that  she 
perfectly  understands  and  sympathizes  with  the 
American  freedom  as  to  friendships  between  men 
and  women,  so  that  she  vacates  the  drawing-room 
for  my  people  just  as  a  farmer's  wife  would  do  for 
her  daughter's  young  men.  She  has  n't  asked  me 
even  a  question  about  you,  Jack!" 

Her  gaiety  so  lifted  and  warmed  him  that  he  was 
prompted  to  say  that  Mrs.  Upton  would  have  to, 
very  soon,  if  the  answer  to  a  certain  question  that 
he  wanted  to  ask  Imogen  were  what  he  hoped  for. 
But  the  jocund  atmosphere  of  their  talk  seemed 
unfit  for  such  a  grave  allusion  and  he  repressed  the 
sally. 


VI 

HEN  Jack  went  away,  after  tea,  Imogen 
remained  sitting  on  the  sofa,  looking 
up  from  time  to  time  at  the  two  por 
traits,  while  thoughts,  quiet  and 
mournful,  but  not  distressing,  passed 
through  her  mind.  An  interview  with  Jack  usually 
left  her  lapped  about  with  a  warm  sense  of  security ; 
she  could  n't  feel  desolate,  even  with  the  greatness 
of  her  loss  so  upon  her,  when  such  devotion  sur 
rounded  her.  One  deep  need  of  her  was  gone,  but 
another  was  there.  Life,  as  she  felt  it,  would  have 
little  meaning  for  her  if  it  had  not  brought  to  her  deep 
needs  that  she,  and  she  alone,  could  satisfy.  With 
Jack's  devotion  and  Jack's  need  to  sustain  her,  it 
was  n't  difficult  to  bear  with  a  butterfly.  One  had 
only  to  stand  serenely  in  one's  place  and  watch  it 
hover.  It  was,  after  all,  as  if  she  had  strung  herself 
to  an  attitude  of  strength  only  to  find  that  no  weight 
was  to  come  crushing  down  upon  her.  The  pain  was 
that  of  feeling  her  mother  so  light. 

"Poor  papa,"  Imogen  murmured  more  than  once, 
as  she  gazed  up  into  the  steady  eyes ;  ' '  what  a  fate  it 
was  for  you— to  be  hurt  all  your  life  by  a  butterfly." 
But  he  had  been  far,  far  too  big  to  let  it  spoil  any 
thing.  He  turned  all  pain  to  spiritual  uses.  What 
sorrow  there  was  had  always  been,  most  of  all,  for 
her. 

89 


70  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

And  then— and  here  was  the  balm  that  had  per 
fumed  all  her  grief  with  its  sacred  aroma— she, 
Imogen,  had  been  there  to  fill  the  emptiness  for  him. 
She  had  always  been  there,  it  seemed  to  her,  as,  in 
her  quiet,  sad  retrospect,  she  looked  back,  now,  to 
the  very  beginnings  of  consciousness.  From  the 
first  she  had  felt  that  her  place  was  by  his  side ;  that, 
together  they  stood  for  something  and  against  some 
body.  In  this  very  room,  so  unchanged— she  could 
even  remember  the  same  dull  thump  of  the  bronze 
clock,  the  blazing  fire,  the  crimson  curtains  drawn  on 
a  snowy  street,— had  happened  the  earliest  of  the 
episodes  that  her  memory  recalled  as  having  so 
placed  her,  so  defined  her  attitude,  even  for  her  al 
most  babyish  apprehension.  She  had  brought  down 
her  dolls  from  her  nursery,  after  tea,  and  ranged 
them  on  the  sofa,  while  her  father  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  head 
thrown  back,  reciting  something  to  himself,  some 
poem,  or  stately  fragment  of  antique  oratory.  He 
paused  now  and  then  as  he  passed  her  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  head  and  smiled  down  at  her.  Then 
the  lovely  lady  of  the  portrait, — just  like  the  portrait 
in  Imogen's  recollection,— had  come,  all  in  white, 
with  wonderful  white  shoulders,  holding  a  fan  and 
long  white  gloves  in  her  hand,  and,  looking  round 
from  her  dolls,  small  Imogen  had  known  in  a  moment 
that  displeasure  was  in  the  air.  "You  are  not 
dressed!"  Those  had  been  her  mother's  first  words 
as  she  paused  on  the  threshold ;  and  then,  echoing 
her  father's  words  with  amazement  and  anger,  "You 
are  not  coming!" 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  71 

The  dialogue  that  followed,  vivid  on  her  mother's 
side  as  sparks  struck  from  steel,  mild  as  milk  on  her 
father 's,  had  been  lost  upon  her ;  but  through  it  all  she 
had  felt  that  he  must  be  right,  in  his  gentleness,  and 
that  she,  in  her  vividness,  must  be  wrong.  She  felt 
that  for  herself,  even  before,  turning  as  if  from  an 
unseemly  contest,  her  father  said,  looking  down  at 
her  with  a  smile  that  had  a  twinge  of  tension,  "You 
would  rather  go  and  see  sick  and  sorry  people  who 
wanted  you,  than  the  selfish,  the  foolish,  the  over 
fed,— would  n't  you,  beautiful  little  one?" 

She  had  answered  quickly,  "Yes,  papa,"  and  had 
kept  her  eyes  on  him,  not  looking  at  her  mother, 
knowing  in  her  childish  soul  that  in  so  answering,  so 
looking,  she  shared  some  triumph  with  him. 

"I  '11  say  you  're  suddenly  ill,  then?"  had  come 
her  mother's  voice,  but  with  a  deadened  note,  as 
though  she  knew  herself  defeated. 

"Lie?  No.  I  must  ask  you,  Valerie,  never  to  lie 
for  me.  Say  the  truth,  that  I  must  go  to  a  friend 
who  needs  me ;  the  truth  won 't  hurt  them. ' ' 

"But  it  's  unbelievable,  your  breaking  a  dinner  en 
gagement,  at  the  last  hour,  for  such  a  reason,"  the 
wife  had  said. 

"Unbelievable,  I  've  no  doubt,  to  the  foolish,  the 
selfish,  the  over-fed.  Social  conventions  and  social 
ideals  will  always  go  down  for  me,  Valerie,  before 
realities,  such  realities  as  brotherhood  and  the  need 
of  a  lonely  human  soul. ' ' 

While  he  spoke  he  had  lifted,  gently,  Imogen's 
long,  fair  curls,  and  smoothed  her  head,  his  eyes  still 
holding  her  eyes,  and  when  her  mother  turned 


72  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

sharply  and  swept  out  of  the  room,  the  sense  of 
united  triumph  had  made  him  bend  down  to  her 
and  made  her  stretch  her  arms  up  to  him,  so  that, 
in  their  long  embrace,  he  seemed  to  consecrate  her  to 
those  "realities"  that  the  pretty,  foolish  mother 
flouted.  That  had  been  her  initiation  and  her  con 
secration. 

After  that,  it  could  not  have  been  many  years 
after,  though  she  had  brought  to  it  a  far  more  under 
standing  observation,  the  next  scene  that  came  up 
for  her  was  a  wrangle  at  lunch  one  day,  over  the 
Delancy  Pottses— if  wrangle  it  could  be  called  when 
one  was  so  light  and  the  other  so  softly  stern. 
Imogen  by  this  time  had  been  old  enough  to  know 
for  what  the  Pottses  counted.  They  were  discoveries 
of  her  father's,  Mr.  Potts  a  valuable  henchman  in 
that  fight  for  realities  to  which  her  father 's  life  was 
dedicated.  Mr.  Potts  wrote  articles  in  ethical  re 
views  about  her  father's  books— they  never  seemed 
to  be  noticed  anywhere  else— and  about  his  many 
projects  for  reform  and  philanthropy.  Both  he  and 
Mrs.  Potts  adored  her  father.  He  lent  them,  indeed, 
all  their  significance;  they  were  there,  as  it  were, 
only  for  the  purpose  of  crystallizing  around  his  mag 
netic  center.  And  of  these  good  people  her  mother 
had  said,  in  her  crisp,  merry  voice,  "I  hate  'em,"— 
disposing  of  the  whole  question  of  value,  flipping  the 
Pottses  away  into  space,  as  it  were,  and  separating 
herself  from  any  interest  in  them.  Even  then  little 
Imogen  had  comprehendingly  shared  her  father's 
still  indignation  for  such  levity.  Hate  the  excellent 
Pottses,  who  wrote  so  beautifully  of  her  father's 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  73 

books,  so  worshiped  all  that  he  was  and  did,  so  ten 
derly  cherished  her  small  self  ?  Imogen  felt  the  old 
reprobation  as  sharply  as  ever,  though  the  Pottses 
had  become,  to  her  mature  insight,  rather  burden 
some,  the  poor,  good,  dull,  pretentious  dears,  and 
would  be  more  so,  now  that  their  only  brilliant  func 
tion,  that  of  punctually,  coruscatingly,  and  in  the 
public  press,  adoring  her  father,  had  been  taken  from 
them.  One  need  have  no  illusion  as  to  the  quality  of 
their  note ;  it  lacked  distinction,  serving  only,  in  its 
unmodulated  vehemence,  the  drum-like  purpose  of 
calling  attention  to  great  matters,  of  reverberating, 
so  one  hoped,  through  lethargic  consciousness. 

But  Imogen  loved  the  Pottses,  so  she  told  herself. 
To  be  sure  of  loving  the  Pottses  was  a  sort  of  pulse 
by  which  one  tested  one's  moral  health.  She  still 
went  religiously  at  least  twice  in  every  winter  to 
their  receptions— funny,  funny  affairs,  she  had  to 
own  it — with  a  kindly  smile  and  a  pleasant  sense  of 
benign  onlooking  at  oddity.  One  met  there  young 
girls  dressed  in  the  strangest  ways  and  affecting  the 
manners  of  budding  Margaret  Fullers— young  writ 
ers  or  musicians  or  social  workers,  and  funny 
frowsy,  solemn  young  men  who  talked,  usually  with 
defective  accents,  about  socialism  and  the  larger  life 
over  ample  platefuls  of  ice-cream.  Sweetness  and 
light,  as  Mrs.  Potts  told  Imogen,  was  the  note  she 
tried  for  in  her  reunions,  and  high  endeavor  and 
brotherly  love. 

Mrs.  Potts  was  a  small,  stout  woman,  who  held 
herself  very  straight  indeed;  her  hands,  on  festive 
occasions,  folded  on  a  lace  handkerchief  before  her. 


74  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

She  had  smooth,  black  hair,  parted  and  coiled  be 
hind,  and  a  fat  face,  pale  fawn-color  in  tint,  encom 
passing  with  waste  of  cheek  and  chin  such  a  small 
group  of  features— the  small,  straight  nose,  the  small, 
sharp  eyes,  the  small,  smiling  mouth— all  placed  too 
high,  and  spanned,  held  together,  as  it  were,  by  a 
pince-nez  firmly  planted,  like  a  bow-shaped  orna 
ment  pinning  a  cluster  of  minute  trinkets  on  a  large 
cushion. 

Mr.  Delancy  Potts  was  tall,  limp,  blond,  and,  from 
years  of  only  dubious  recognition,  rather  querulous. 
He  had  a  solemn  eye  under  a  fringe  of  whitened  eye 
brow,  a  long  nose,  that  his  wife  often  fondly  alluded 
to  as  "aristocratic"  (they  were  keen  on  "blood," 
the  Delancy  Pottses),  and  a  very  retreating  chin 
that  one  saw  sometimes  in  disastrous  silhouette 
against  the  light.  Draped  in  the  flowing  fullness  of 
hair  and  beard,  his  face  showed  a  pseudo-dignity. 

Imogen  saw  the  Pottses  with  a  very  candid  eye, 
and  her  mind  drifted  from  that  distant  disposal  of 
them  to  the  contrast  of  the  recent  meeting,  recalling 
their  gestures  and  postures  as  they  sat,  with  an  un 
easy  assumption  of  ease,  before  her  mother,  of  whom, 
for  so  many  years,  they  had  disapproved  more,  al 
most,  than  they  disapproved  of  municipal  corrup 
tion  and  "the  smart  set."  As  onlooker  she  had  been 
forced  to  own  that  her  mother's  manner  toward 
them  had  been  quite  perfect.  She  had  accepted 
them  as  her  husband 's  mourners ;  had  accepted  them 
as  Imogen's  friends;  had,  indeed,  so  thoroughly  ac 
cepted  them,  in  whatever  capacity  they  were  offered 
to  her,  that  Imogen  felt  that  a  slight  enlightenment 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  75 

would  be  necessary,  and  that  her  mother  must  be 
made  to  feel  that  her  own,  even  her  father's  accept 
ance  of  the  Pottses,  had  had  always  its  reservations. 

And  some  acceptances,  some  atonements,  came  too 
late.  The  Pottses  had  not  been  the  only  members  of 
the  little  circle  gathered  about  her  father  who  had 
called  forth  her  mother 's  wounding  levity.  She  had 
taken  refuge  on  many  other  occasions  in  the  half- 
playful,  half -decisive,  "I  hate  'em,"  as  if  to  throw 
up  the  final  barrier  of  her  own  perversity  before 
pursuit.  Not  that  she  had  n't  been  decent  enough 
in  her  actual  treatment,  it  was  rather  that  she  would 
never  take  the  Pottses,  or  any  of  the  others— oddities 
she  evidently  considered  them— seriously ;  it  was, 
most  of  all,  that  she  would  never  let  them  come  near 
enough  to  try  to  take  her  seriously.  She  held  herself 
aloof,  not  disdainful,  but  indifferently  gay,  from 
her  father's  instruments,  her  father's  friends,  her 
father's  aims. 

Later  on,  as  Imogen  grew  into  girlhood,  her  mother 
lost  most  of  the  gaiety  and  all  of  the  levity.  Imogen 
guessed  that  storms,  more  violent  than  any  she  was 
allowed  to  witness,  intervened  between  young  re 
bellion  and  the  cautious  peace,  the  hostility  that  no 
longer  laughed  and  no  longer  lost  its  temper,  but 
that,  quiet,  kind,  observant,  went  its  own  way,  leav 
ing  her  father  to  go  his.  The  last  memory  that  came 
up  for  her  was  of  what  had  followed  such  a  storm. 
It  seemed  to  mark  an  epoch,  to  close  the  chapter  of 
struggle  and  initiate  that  of  acceptance.  What  the 
contest  had  been  she  never  knew,  but  she  remem 
bered  in  every  detail  its  sequel,  remembered  lying  IL 


76  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

bed  in  her  placid,  fire-lit  room  and  hearing  in  her 
mother's  room  next  hers  the  sound  of  violent  sob 
bing. 

Imogen  had  felt,  while  she  listened,  a  vague, 
alarmed  pity,  a  pity  mingled  with  condemnation. 
Her  father  never  lost  his  self-control  and  had  taught 
her  that  to  do  so  was  selfish ;  so  that,  as  she  listened 
to  the  undisciplined  grief,  and  thought  that  it  might 
be  well  for  her  to  go  in  to  her  mother  and  console 
her,  she  thought,  too,  of  the  line  that,  tenderly,  she 
would  say  to  her — for  Imogen,  now,  was  fourteen 
years  old,  with  an  excellent  taste  in  poetry : 

"The  gods  approve 
The  depth,  but  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul." 

It  was  a  line  her  father  often  quoted  to  her  and  she 
always  thought  of  him  when  she  thought  of  it. 

But,  just  as  she  was  rising  to  go  on  this  errand  of 
mercy,  her  father  himself  had  come  in.  He  sat 
down  in  silence  by  her  bed  and  put  out  his  hand  to 
hers  and  then  she  seemed  to  understand  all  from  the 
very  contrast  that  his  silence  made.  The  sobs  they 
listened  to  were  those  of  a  passionate,  a  punished 
child,  of  a  child,  too,  who  could  use  unchildlike 
weapons,  could  cut,  could  pierce ;  she  must  not  leave 
her  father  to  go  to  it.  After  a  little  while  the  sobs 
were  still  and,  as  her  father,  without  speaking,  sat 
on,  stroking  her  hair  and  hand,  the  door  softly 
opened  and  her  mother  came  in.  Imogen  could  see 
her,  in  her  long  white  dressing-gown,  with  her  wide 
braids  falling  on  either  side,  all  the  traces  of  weeping 
carefully  effaced.  She  often  came  in  so  to  kiss 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  77 

Imogen  good-night,  gently,  and  with  a  slight  touch 
of  shyness,  as  though  she  knew  herself  shut  away 
from  the  inner  chamber  of  the  child's  heart,  and  the 
moment  was  their  tenderest,  for  Imogen,  under 
standing,  though  powerless  to  respond,  never  felt  so 
sorry  or  so  fond  as  then.  But  to-night  her  mother, 
seeing  them  there  together  hand  in  hand,  seeing  that 
they  must  have  listened  to  her  own  intemperate 
grief,— their  eyes  gravely,  unitedly  judging  her  told 
her  that,— seeing  that  her  husband,  as  at  the  very 
beginning,  had  found  at  once  his  ally,  drew  back 
quickly  and  went  away  without  a  word.  Whatever 
the  cause  of  contest,  Imogen  knew  that  in  this  silent 
confrontation  of  each  other  in  her  presence  was  the 
final  severance.  After  that  her  mother  had  acqui 
esced. 

She  acquiesced,  but  she  yielded  nothing,  confessed 
nothing.  One  could  n't  tell  whether  she,  too,  judged, 
but  one  suspected  it,  and  the  dim  sense  of  an  alien 
standard  placed  over  against  them  more  and  more 
closely  drew  Imogen  and  her  father  together  for 
mutual  sustainment.  If,  however,  her  mother 
judged,  she  never  expressed  judgment;  and  if  she 
felt  the  need  of  sustainment,  she  never  claimed  it. 
It  would,  indeed,  have  been  rather  fruitless  to  claim 
it  from  the  fourth  member  of  the  family  group. 
Eddy  seemed  so  little  to  belong  to  the  group.  As 
far  as  he  went,  to  be  sure,  he  went  always  with  her 
and  aga'inst  his  father,  but  then  Eddy  never  went 
far  enough  to  form  any  sort  of  a  bulwark.  A  cheer 
ful,  smiling,  hard  young  pagan,  Eddy,  frankly 
bored  by  his  father,  coolly  fond  of  his  mother,  avoid 


78  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ing  the  one,  but  capable  of  little  effective  demon 
stration  toward  the  other.  Eddy  liked  achievement, 
exactitude,  a  serene,  smiling  outlook,  and  was  hap 
pily  absorbed  in  his  own  interests. 

So  it  had  all  gone  on,— Imogen  traced  it,  sitting 
there  in  her  quiet  corner,  holding  balances  in  fair, 
firm  hands,— her  mother  drifting  into  a  place  of 
mere  conventionality  in  the  family  life ;  and  Imogen, 
even  now,  could  not  see  quite  clearly  whether  it  had 
been  she  who  had  judged  and  abandoned  her  hus 
band,  or  he  who  had  judged  and  put  her  aside.  In 
either  case  she  could  sum  it  up,  her  eyes  lifted  once 
more  to  the  portrait 's  steady  eyes,  with,  ' '  Poor,  won 
derful  papa." 

He  was  gone,  the  dear,  the  wonderful  one,  and  she 
was  left  single-handed  to  carry  on  his  work.  What 
this  work  was  loomed  largely,  though  vaguely,  for 
her.  The  three  slender  volumes,  literary  and  ethical, 
were  the  only  permanent  testament  that  her  father 
had  given  to  the  world ;  and  dealing,  as  in  the  main 
they  did,  with  ultimate  problems,  their  keynote  an 
illumined  democracy  that  saw  in  most  of  the  results 
as  yet  achieved  by  his  country  a  base  travesty  of  the 
doctrine,  the  largeness  of  their  grasp  was  perhaps  a 
trifle  loose.  Imogen  did  not  see  it.  Her  apprecia 
tion  was  more  of  aims  than  of  achievements ;  but  she 
felt  that  her  father's  writings  were  the  body,  only, 
of  his  message ;  its  spirit  lived— lived  in  herself  and 
in  all  those  with  whom  he  had  come  in  fruitful  con 
tact.  It  was  to  hand  on  the  meaning  of  that  spirit 
that  she  felt  herself  dedicated.  Perfect,  unflinching 
truth ;  the  unfaltering  bearing  witness  to  all  men  of 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  79 

his  conception  of  right;  the  seeing  of  her  own  per 
sonality  as  but  an  instrument  in  the  service  of  good 
—these  were  the  chief  words  of  the  gospel.  Life  in 
its  realest  sense  meant  only  this  dedication.  To 
serve,  to  love,  to  be  the  truth.  Her  eyes  on  her 
father's  pictured  eyes,  iinogen  smiled  into  them, 
promising  him  and  herself  that  she  would  not  fail. 


vn 


was  in  the  library  next  morning  that 
Valerie  asked  Imogen  to  join  her,  and 
the  girl,  who  had  come  into  the  room 
with  her  light,  soft  step,  paused  to  kiss 
her  mother's  forehead  before  going  to 
the  opposite  seat. 

"Deep  in  ways  and  means,  mamma  dear?"  she 
asked  her.  ' '  Why,  you  are  quite  a  business  woman. ' ' 

"Quite,"  Valerie  replied.  "I  have  been  going 
over  things  with  Mr.  Haliwell,  you  know."  She 
smiled  thoughtfully  at  Imogen,  preoccupied,  as  the 
girl  could  see,  by  what  she  had  to  say. 

Imogen  was  slightly  ruffled  by  the  flavor  of  as 
surance  that  she  felt  in  her  mother,  as  of  someone 
who,  after  gently  and  vaguely  fumbling  about  for  a 
clue  to  her  own  meaning  in  new  conditions,  had 
suddenly  found  something  to  which  she  held  very 
firmly.  Imogen  was  rejoiced  for  her  that  she  should 
find  a  field  of  real  usefulness — were  it  only  that  of 
housekeeping  and  seeing  to  weekly  bills ;  but  there 
was  certainly  a  touch  of  the  inappropriate,  perhaps 
of  the  grotesque,  in  any  assumption  on  her  mother's 
part  of  maturity  and  competence.  She  therefore 
smiled  back  at  her  with  much  the  same  tolerantly  in 
terested  smile  that  a  parent  might  bestow  on  a  child's 
brick-building  of  a  castle. 

80 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  81 

"I  'm  so  glad  that  you  have  that  to  give  yourself 
to,  mama  dear,"  she  said.  "You  shall  most  cer 
tainly  be  our  business  woman  and  add  figures  and 
keep  an  eye  on  investment  to  your  heart's  content. 
I  know  absolutely  nothing  of  the  technical  side  of 
money— I  've  thought  of  it  only  as  an  instrument, 
a  responsibility,  a  power  given  me  in  trust  for 
others. ' ' 

Valerie,  whose  warmth  of  tint  and  softness  of  out 
line  seemed  dimmed  and  sharpened,  as  though  by  a 
controlled  anxiety,  glanced  at  her  daughter,  gravely 
and  a  little  timidly.  And  as,  in  silence,  she  lightly 
dotted  her  pen  over  the  paper  under  her  hand,  un 
certain,  apparently,  with  what  words  to  approach 
the  subject,  it  was  Imogen,  again,  who  spoke,  kindly, 
but  with  a  touch  of  impatience. 

"We  must  n't  be  too  long  over  our  talk,  dear.  I 
must  meet  Miss  Bocock  at  twelve." 

"Miss  Bocock?"  Valerie  was  vague.  "Have  I 
met  her?" 

"Not  yet.  She  is  a  protegee  of  mine — English — a 
Newnham  woman — a  folk-lorist.  I  heard  of  her  from 
some  Boston  friends,  read  her  books,  and  induced 
her  to  come  over  and  lecture  to  us  this  winter.  We 
are  arranging  about  the  lectures  now.  I  've  got  up 
a  big  class  for  her — when  I  say  'I,'  I  mean,  of  course, 
with  the  help  of  all  my  dear,  good  friends  who  are 
always  so  ready  to  back  me  up  in  my  undertakings. 
She  is  an  immensely  interesting  woman ;  ugly,  dresses 
tastelessly ;  but  one  does  n  't  think  of  that  when  on( 
is  listening  to  her.  She  has  a  wonderful  mind; 
strong,  disciplined,  stimulating.  I  'm  very  happy 


82  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

that  I  've  been  able  to  give  America  to  her  and  her 
to  America. ' ' 

' '  She  must  be  very  interesting, ' '  said  Valerie.  ' '  I 
shall  like  hearing  her.  We  will  get  through  our 
business  as  soon  as  possible  so  that  you  may  keep 
your  appointment. ' '  And  now,  after  this  digression, 
she  seemed  to  find  it  easier  to  plunge.  "You  knew 
that  your  father  had  left  very  little  money,  Imogen." 

Imogen,  her  hands  lightly  folded  in  her  lap,  sat 
across  the  table,  all  mild  attention. 

"No,  I  did  n't,  mama.  We  never  talked  about 
money,  he  and  I." 

"No;  still— you  spent  it." 

"Papa  considered  himself  only  a  steward  for 
what  he  had.  He  used  his  money,  he  did  not  hoard 
it,  mama  dear.  Indeed,  I  know  that  his  feeling 
against  accumulations  of  capital,  against  all  private 
property,  unless  used  for  the  benefit  of  all,  was  very 
strong. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Valerie,  after  a  slight  pause,  in  which 
she  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  the  paper  where  her 
pen  now  drew  a  few  neat  lines.  "Yes,  But  he  has 
left  very  little  for  Eddy,  very  little  for  you ;  it  was 
that  I  was  thinking  of. ' ' 

At  this  Imogen's  face  from  gentle  grew  very 
grave. 

"Mama  dear,  I  don't  think  that  you  and  papa 
would  have  agreed  about  the  upbringing  of  a  man. 
You  have  the  European  standpoint;  we  don't  hold 
with  that  over  here.  We  believe  in  equipping  the 
man,  giving  him  power  for  independence,  and  we 
expect  him  to  make  his  own  way.  Papa  would 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  83 

rather  have  had  Eddy  work  on  the  roads  for  his 
bread  than  turn  him  into  a  faineant." 

Valerie  drew  her  lines  into  a  square  before  say 
ing,  "I,  you  know,  with  Mr.  Haliwell,  am  one  of 
your  trustees.  He  tells  me  that  your  father  gave 
you  a  great  deal. ' ' 

' '  Whatever  I  asked.  He  had  perfect  trust  in  me. 
Our  aims  were  the  same. ' ' 

"And  how  did  you  spend  it?  Don't  imagine  that 
I  'm  finding  fault." 

"Oh,  I  know  that  you  could  n't  well  do  that!" 
said  Imogen  with  a  smile  a  little  bitter.  "I  spent 
very  little  on  myself."  And  she  continued,  with 
somewhat  the  manner  of  humoring  an  exacting 
child:  "You  see,  I  helped  a  great  many  people;  I 
sent  two  girls  to  college ;  I  sent  a  boy — such  a  dear, 
fine  boy — for  three  years'  art-study  in  Paris;  he  is 
getting  on  so  well.  There  is  my  girls'  club  on  the 
East  side,  my  girls'  club  in  Vermont;  there  is  the 
Crippled  Children's  Home,— quite  numberless  chari 
ties  I  'm  interested  in.  It  's  been  one  thing  after 
another,  money  has  not  lacked,— but  time  has,  to 
answer  all  the  claims  upon  me.  And  then,"  here 
Imogen  smiled  again,  ' '  I  believe  in  the  claims  of  the 
self,  too,  when  they  are  disciplined  and  harmonized 
into  a  larger  experience.  There  has  been  music  to 
keep  up ;  friends  to  see  and  to  make  things  nice  for ; 
flowers  to  send  to  sick  friends ;  concerts  to  send  poor 
friends  to;  dinners  and  lunches  to  give  so  that 
friends  may  meet — all  the  thousand  and  one  little 
things  that  a  large,  rich  life  demands  of  one." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Valerie,  who  had  nodded  at  in- 


84  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

tervals  during  the  list.  "I  quite  see  all  that.  You 
are  a  dear,  generous  child  and  love  to  give  pleasure ; 
and  your  father  refused  you  nothing.  It  's  my 
fault,  too.  My  more  mercenary  mind  should  have 
been  near  to  keep  watch.  Because,  as  a  result, 
there  's  very  little,  dear,  very,  very  little." 

' '  Oh,  your  being  here  would  not  have  changed  our 
ideas  as  to  the  right  way  to  spend  money,  mama. 
Don't  blame  yourself   for  that.     We  should  have 
bled  you,  too!" 

"Oh,  no,  you  would  n't,"  Valerie  said  quickly. 
"I  've  too  much  of  the  instinctive,  selfish  mother- 
thing  in  me  to  have  allowed  myself  to  be  bled  for 
cripples  and  clubs  and  artistic  boys.  I  don't  care 
about  them  a  bit  compared  to  you  and  Eddy.  But 
this  is  all  beside  the  mark.  The  question  now  is, 
What  are  we  to  do?  Because  that  generous,  ex 
pensive  life  of  yours  has  come  to  an  end,  for  the 
present  at  all  events." 

Imogen  at  this  sat  silent  for  some  moments,  fixing 
eyes  of  deep,  and  somewhat  confused,  cogitation 
upon  her  mother 's  face. 

"Why— but  — I  supposed  that  you  had  minded  for 
Eddy  and  me,  mama, ' '  she  said  at  last. 

' '  I  have  very  little  money,  Imogen. ' ' 

Imogen  hesitated,  blushing  a  little,  before  saying, 
"Surely  you  were  quite  rich  when  papa  married 
you." 

' '  Hardly  rich  ;  but,  yes,  quite  well  off. ' ' 

"And  you  spent  it  all— on  yourself?" 

Valerie's  color,  too,  had  faintly  risen.  "Not  so 
much  on  myself,  Imogen,  though  I  wish  now  that  I 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  85 

had  been  more  economical;  but  I  was  ignorant  of 
your  father's  rather  reckless  expenditure.  In  the 
first  years  of  my  marriage,  before  the  selfish  mother- 
thing  was  developed  in  me,  I  handed  a  good  deal  of 
my  capital  over  to  him,  for  his  work,  his  various 
projects;  in  order  to  leave  him  as  free  for  these 
projects  as  possible,  I  educated  you  and  Eddy — 
that,  too,  came  out  of  my  capital.  And  the  building 
of  the  house  in  Vermont  swallowed  a  good  deal  of 
money. ' ' 

Imogen's  blush  had  deepened.  "Of  course,"  she 
said,  "there  is  no  more  reckless  expenditure  possi 
ble—since  you  use  the  term,  mama — than  keeping 
up  two  establishments  for  one  family;  that,  of 
course,  was  your  own  choice.  But,  putting  that 
aside,  you  must  surely,  still,  have  a  good  deal  left. 
See  how  you  live;  see  how  you  are  taken  care  of, 
with  a  maid,— I  've  never  had  a  maid,  papa,  as  you 
know,  thought  them  self-indulgences, — see  how  you 
dress,"  she  cast  a  glance  upon  the  refinements  of 
her  mother's  black. 

"How  I  dress,  my  child?  May  I  ask  what  that 
dress  you  have  on  cost  you  ? ' ' 

"I  believe  only  in  getting  the  best.  This,  for  the 
best,  was  inexpensive.  One  hundred  dollars." 

"Twenty  pounds,"  Valerie  translated,  as  if  to  im 
press  the  sum  more  fully  on  her  mind.  "I  know 
that  clothes  over  here  are  ruinous.  Now  mine  cost 
only  eight  pounds  and  was  made  by  a  very  little 
woman  in  London." 

Imogen  cast  another  glance,  now  of  some  helpless 
wonder,  at  the  dress. 


86  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Of  course  you  are  so  clever  about  such  things; 
I  should  n't  wish  to  spend  my  thought— and  I 
could  n't  spend  my  time— on  clothes.  And  then  the 
standard  of  wages  is  so  scandalously  low  in  Europe ; 
I  confess  that  I  would  rather  not  profit  by  it. ' ' 

"I  am  a  very  economical  woman,  Imogen,"  said 
Valerie,  with  some  briskness  of  utterance.  "My 
cottage  in  Surrey  costs  me  fifty  pounds  a  year.  I 
keep  two  maids,  my  own  maid,  a  cook,  a  gardener; 
there  's  a  pony  and  trap  and  a  stable-boy.  I  have 
friends  with  me  constantly  and  pay  a  good  many 
visits.  Yet  my  income  is  only  eight  hundred  pounds 
a  year. ' ' 

"Eight  hundred— four  thousand  dollars,"  Imogen 
translated,  a  note  of  sharp  alarm  in  her  voice. 
"That,  of  course,  would  not  be  nearly  enough  for 
all  of  us." 

"Not  living  as  you  have,  certainly,  dear." 

"But  papa?  Surely  papa  has  left  something?  He 
must  have  made  money  at  his  legal  practice." 

"Never  much.  His  profession  was  always  a  by- 
issue  with  him.  I  find  that  his  affairs  are  a  good 
deal  involved ;  when  all  the  encumbrances  are  cleared 
off,  we  think,  Mr.  Haliwell  and  I,  that  we  may  se 
cure  an  amount  that  will  bring  our  whole  income  to 
about  five  thousand  dollars  a  year.  If  we  go  on 
living  in  New  York  it  will  require  the  greatest  care 
to  be  comfortable  on  that.  We  must  find  a  flat 
somewhere,  unless  you  cared  to  live  in  England, 
where  we  could  be  very  comfortable  indeed,  without 
effort,  on  what  we  have. ' ' 

Imogen  was  keeping  a  quiet  face,  but  her  mother, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  87 

with  a  pang  of  helpless  pity  and  compunction,  saw 
tears  near  the  surface,  and  that,  to  control  them, 
she  fixed  herself  on  the  meaning  of  the  last  words. 
' '  Live  out  of  my  own  country !  Never ! ' ' 

"No,  dear,  I  did  n't  think  that  you  would  want 
to;  I  did  n't  want  it  for  you,  either;  I  only  sug 
gested  it  so  that  you  might  see  clearly  just  where  we 
stand,  and  in  case  you  might  prefer  it,  with  our 
limited  means. ' ' 

Imogen's  next  words  broke  out  even  more  vehe 
mently.  "I  can't  leave  this  house!  I  can't!  It  is 
my  home. ' '  The  tears  ran  down  her  face. 

"My  poor  darling!"  her  mother  exclaimed.  She 
rose  quickly  and  came  round  the  table  to  her,  put 
ting  her  arm  around  her  and  trying  to  draw  her 
near. 

But  Imogen,  covering  her  eyes  with  one  hand, 
held  her  oft'.  "It  's  wrong.  It  's  unfair.  I  should 
have  been  told  before. ' ' 

"Imogen,  /  did  not  know.  I  was  not  admitted  to 
your  father's  confidence.  I  used  to  speak  to  you 
sometimes,  you  must  remember,  about  being  care 
ful." 

"I  never  thought  about  it.  I  thought  he  made  a 
great  deal — I  thought  you  had  a  great  deal  of 
money, ' '  Imogen  sobbed. 

"It  is  my  fault,  in  one  sense,  I  know,"  her  mother 
said,  still  standing  beside  her,  her  hand  on  her  shoul 
der.  "  If  I  had  been  here  I  could  have  prevented  some 
of  it.  But— it  has  seemed  so  inevitable. "  The  tears 
rose  in  Valerie's  eyes  also;  she  looked  away  to  con 
quer  them.  "Don't  blame  me  too  much,  dear.  I 


88  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

shall  try  to  do  my  best  now.  And  then,  after  all, 
it  's  not  of  such  tragic  importance,  is  it?  We  can  be 
very  happy  with  what  we  have. ' ' 

Imogen  wept  on :  ' '  Leave  my  home ! ' ' 

"There,  there.  Don't  cry  so.  We  won't  leave  it. 
We  will  manage  somehow.  We  will  stay  on  here,  for 
a  time  at  least — until  you  marry,  Imogen.  You  will 
probably  marry,"  and  Valerie  attempted  a  softly 
rallying  smile,  "before  so  very  long." 

But  the  attempt  was  an  unfortunately  timed  one. 
"Oh,  mama!  don't — don't — bring  your  horrible 
European  point  of  view  into  that,  too!"  cried 
Imogen. 

"What  point  of  view?  Indeed,  indeed,  dear,  I 
did  n't  mean  to  hurt  you,  to  be  indiscreet— 

"The  economic,  materialistic,  worldly  point  of 
view— that  money  problems  can  be  solved  by  a  thing 
that  is  sacred,  sacred ! ' '  Imogen  passionately  de 
clared,  her  face  still  hidden. 

Her  mother  now  guessed  that  the  self-abandon 
ment  was  over  and  that,  with  recovered  control,  she 
found  it  difficult  to  pick  up  her  usual  dignity.  The 
insight  added  to  her  tenderness.  She  touched  the 
girl's  hair  softly,  said,  in  a  soothing  voice,  that  she 
had  meant  nothing,  nothing  gross  or  unfeeling,  and, 
seeing  that  her  nearness  was  not,  at  the  moment, 
welcome,  returned  to  her  own  place  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table. 

Imogen  now  dried  her  eyes.  In  the  consternation 
that  her  mother's  statements  had  caused  her  there 
had,  indeed,  almost  at  once,  arisen  the  consoling 
figure  of  Jack  Pennington,  and  she  did  not  know 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  89 

whether  she  were  the  more  humiliated  by  her  own 
grief,  for  such  a  mercenary  cause,  or  by  this  stilling 
of  it,  this  swift  realization  that  the  cramped  life  need 
last  no  longer,  for  herself,  than  she  chose.  To  feel  so 
keenly  the  need  of  escape  was  to  feel  herself  im 
prisoned  by  the  new  conditions ;  for  never,  never  for 
one  moment,  must  the  need  of  escape  weigh  with 
her  in  her  decision  as  to  Jack's  place  in  her  life. 
She  must  accept  the  burden,  not  knowing  that  it 
would  ever  be  lifted,  and  with  this  acceptance  the 
sense  of  humiliation  left  her,  so  that  she  could  more 
clearly  see  that  she  had  had  a  right  to  her  dismay. 
Her  crippled  life  would  hurt  not  only  herself,  but 
all  that  she  meant  to  others— her  beneficence,  her 
radiance,  her  loving  power ;  so  hurt  it,  that,  for  one 
dark  moment,  had  come  just  a  dart  of  severity 
toward  her  father.  The  memory  of  her  mother's 
implied  criticism  had  repulsed  it;  dear,  wonderful, 
transcendentalist,  she  must  be  worthy  of  him  and 
not  allow  her  thoughts,  in  their  coward  panic,  to 
sink  to  the  mother's  level.  This  was  the  deepest  call 
upon  her  courage  that  had  ever  come  to  her.  Calls 
to  courage  were  the  very  breath  of  the  spiritual  life. 
Imogen  lifted  her  heart  to  the  realm  of  spirit,  where 
strength  was  to  be  found,  and,  though  her  mother, 
with  those  implied  criticisms,  had  pierced  her,  she 
could  now,  with  her  recovered  tranquility  of  soul, 
be  very  patient  with  her.  In  a  voice  slightly  muffled 
and  uncertain,  but  very  gentle,  she  said  that  she 
thought  it  best  to  live  on  in  the  dear  home.  "We 
must  retrench  in  other  places,  mama.  I  would 
rather  give  up  almost  anything  than  this.  He  is  here 


90  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

to  me."  Her  tears  rose  again,  but  they  were  no 
longer  tears  of  bitterness.  ' '  It  would  be  like  leaving 
him." 

"Yes,  dear,  yes;  that  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  said 
Valerie,  who  was  deeply  considering  what  these  re 
trenchments  should  be.  She,  too,  was  knowing  a 
qualm  of  humiliation  over  self -revelations.  She  had 
not  expected  that  it  would  be  really  so  painful,  in 
such  trivial  matters,  to  adjust  herself  to  the  most 
ordinary  maternal  sacrifices.  It  only  showed  her 
the  more  plainly  how  fatal,  how  almost  fatal,  it 
was  to  the  right  impulses,  to  live  away  from  fam 
ily  ties;  so  that  at  their  first  pressure  upon  her, 
in  a  place  that  sharply  pinched,  she  found  her 
self  rueful. 

For  the  first  retrenchment,  of  course,  must  be  the 
sending  back  to  England  of  her  dear,  staunch  Felkin, 
who  had  taken  such  care  of  her  for  so  many  years. 
Her  heart  was  heavy  with  the  thought.  She  was 
very  fond  of  Felkin,  and  to  part  with  her  would  be, 
in  a  chill,  almost  an  ominous  way,  like  parting  with 
the  last  link  that  bound  her  to  "over  there."  Be 
sides,— Valerie  was  a  luxurious  woman,— unpleasant 
visions  went  through  her  mind  of  mud  to  be  brushed 
off  and  braid  to  be  put  on  the  bottoms  of  skirts; 
stockings  to  darn — she  was  sure  that  it  was  loath 
some  to  darn  stockings;  buttons  to  keep  in  their 
places;  all  the  thousand  and  one  little  rudiments  of 
life,  to  which  one  had  never  had  to  give  a  thought, 
looming,  suddenly,  in  the  foreground  of  one's  con 
sciousness.  And  how  very  tiresome  to  do  one's  own 
hair.  Well,  it  could  n't  be  helped.  She  accepted 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  91 

the  accompanying  humiliation,  finding  no  refuge  in 
Imogen's  spiritual  consolations. 

"Eddy  leaves  Harvard  this  spring  and  goes  into 
Mr.  Haliwell's  office.  He  will  live  with  us  here, 
then.  And  we  can  be  very  economical  about  food 
and  clothes ;  I  can  help  little  dressmakers  with  yours, 
you  know, ' '  she  said,  smiling  at  her  child. 

"Everything,  mama,  everything  must  be  done, 
rather  than  leave  this  house." 

"We  must  n't  let  the  girls'  clubs  suffer,  either," 
Valerie  attempted  further  to  lighten  the  other's 
gloomy  resolution.  ' '  That  's  one  of  the  first  claims. ' ' 

"I  must  balance  all  claims,  with  justice.  I  have 
many  other  calls  upon  me,  dear,  and  it  will  need 
earnest  thought  to  know  which  to  eliminate. ' ' 

"Well,  the  ones  you  care  about  most  are  the  ones 
we  '11  try  to  fit  in." 

"My  caring  is  not  the  standard,  mama.  The 
ones  that  need  me  most  are  the  ones  I  shall  fit  in. ' ' 

Imogen  rose,  drawing  a  long,  sighing  breath.  Un 
der  her  new  and  heavy  burden,  her  mother,  in  these 
suggestions  for  the  disposal  of  her  life,  was  glib, 
assured.  But  the  necessity  for  tenderness  and  for 
bearance  was  strongly  with  her.  She  went  round 
the  table  to  Valerie,  pressed  her  head  to  her  breast 
and  kissed  her  forehead,  saying,  "Forgive  me  if  I 
have  seemed  hard,  darling." 

"No,  dear,  no;  I  quite  understood  all  you  felt," 
Valerie  said,  returning  the  kiss.  But,  after  Imogen 
had  left  her,  she  sat  for  a  long  time,  very  still,  her 
hand  only  moving,  as  she  traced  squares  and  circles 
on  her  paper. 


VIII 

ACK  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
Imogen  looking  graver  than  on  that 
night  when  he  came  again.  Her  face 
seemed  calm  only  because  she  so  com 
pressed  and  controlled  all  sorts  of  agi 
tating  things.  Her  mother  was  with  her  in  the  lamp- 
lit  library  and  he  guessed  already  that,  in  any  case, 
Imogen,  before  her  mother,  would  rarely  show  gaiety 
and  playfulness.  Gaiety  and  playfulness  would 
seem  to  condone  the  fact  that  her  mother  found  so 
little  need  of  help  in  "bearing"  the  burden  of  her 
regret  and  of  her  self-reproach.  But,  allowing  for 
that  fact,  Imogen's  gravity  was  more  than  negative. 
It  confronted  him  like  a  solemn  finger  laid  on  firmly 
patient  lips ;  he  felt  it  dwell  upon  him  like  solemn 
eyes  while  he  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Upton,  whom 
he  had  not  seen  since  the  morning  of  her  arrival. 

Mrs.  Upton,  too,  was  grave,  after  a  fashion;  but 
her  whole  demeanor  might  be  decidedly  irritating 
to  a  consciousness  so  burdened  with  a  sense  of  change 
as  Imogen's  evidently  was.  Even  before  that  finger, 
those  eyes,  into  which  he  had  symbolized  Imogen's 
manner,  Mrs.  Upton's  gravity  could  break  into  a 
smile  quite  undisturbed,  apparently,  by  any  inap- 
propriateness.  She  sat  near  the  lamp  crocheting; 
soft,  white  wool  sliding  through  her  fingers  and 

92 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  93 

wave  after  wave  of  cloudy  substance  lengthening  a 
tiny  baby's  jacket,  so  very  small  a  jacket  that  Jack 
surmised  it  to  be  a  gift  for  an  expectant  mother. 
He  further  surmised  that  Mrs.  Upton  would  be  very 
nice  to  expectant  mothers;  that  they  would  like  to 
have  her  around. 

Mrs.  Upton  would  not  curb  her  smile  on  account 
of  Imogen's  manner,  nor  would  she  recognize  it  to 
the  extent  of  tacitly  excluding  her  from  the  con 
versation.  She  seemed,  indeed,  to  pass  him  on,  in 
all  she  said,  to  Imogen,  and  Jack,  once  more,  found 
his  situation  between  them  a  little  difficult,  for  if 
Mrs.  Upton  passed  him  on,  Imogen  was  in  no  hurry 
to  receive  him.  He  had,  once  or  twice,  the  sensation 
of  being  stranded,  and  it  was  always  Mrs.  Upton 
who  felt  his  need  and  who  pushed  him  off  into  the 
ease  of  fresh  questions. 

He  was  going  back  to  Boston  the  next  day  and 
asked  Imogen  if  he  could  take  any  message  to  Mary 
Osborne. 

"Thank  you,  Jack,"  said  Imogen,  "but  I  write  to 
Mary,  always,  twice  a  week.  She  depends  on  my 
letters." 

"When  is  she  coming  to  you  again?" 

"I  am  afraid  she  is  not  to  come  at  all,  now." 

"You  're  not  going  away?"  the  young  man  asked 
sharply,  for  her  voice  of  sad  acceptance  implied 
something  quite  as  sorrowful. 

"Oh,  no!"  Imogen  answered,  "but  mama  does 
not  feel  that  I  can  have  my  friend  here  now. ' ' 

Jack,  stranded  indeed,  looked  his  discomfort  and, 
glancing  at  Mrs.  Upton,  he  saw  it  echoed,  though 


94  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

with  a  veiled  echo.  She  laid  down  her  work;  she 
looked  at  her  daughter  as  though  to  probe  the  signifi 
cance  of  her  speech,  and,  not  finding  her  clue,  she 
sat  rather  helplessly  silent. 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  with  attempted  lightness,  "I 
hope  that  I  'm  not  exiled,  too." 

"Oh,  Jack,  how  cm  you!"  said  Imogen.  "It  is 
only  that  we  have  discovered  that  we  are  very,  very 
poor,  and  one's  hospitable  impulses  are  shackled. 
Mama  has  been  so  brave  about  it,  and  I  don 't  want 
to  put  any  burdens  upon  her,  especially  burdens 
that  would  be  so  uncongenial  to  her  as  dear,  funny 
Mary.  Mama  could  hardly  care  for  that  typical 
New  England  thing.  Don't  mind  Jack,  mama;  he 
is  such  a  near  friend  that  I  can  talk  quite  frankly 
before  him." 

For  Mrs.  Upton  was  now  gathering  up  her  inno 
cent  work,  preparatory,  it  was  evident,  to  departure. 

"You  are  not  displeased,  dear!"  Imogen  protested 
as  she  rose,  not  angry,  not  injured— Jack  was  trying 
to  make  it  out— but  full  of  a  soft  withdrawal. 
"Please  don't  go.  I  so  want  you  and  Jack  to  see 
something  of  each  other. ' ' 

"I  will  come  back  presently,"  said  Mrs.  Upton. 
And  so  she  left  them.  Jack's  thin  face  had  flushed. 

"She  means  that  she  won't  talk  quite  frankly  be 
fore  you,  you  see,"  said  Imogen.  "Don't  mind, 
dear  Jack,  she  is  full  of  these  foolish  little  conven 
tionalities;  she  cares  so  tremendously  about  the 
forms  of  things ;  I  simply  pay  no  attention ;  that  's 
the  best  way.  But  it  's  quite  true,  Jack;  I  don't 
know  that  I  can  afford  to  have  my  friends  come  and 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  95 

stay  with  me  any  more.  Apparently  mama  and 
papa,  in  their  so  different  ways,  have  been  very  ex 
travagant;  and  I,  too,  Jack,  have  been  extravagant. 
I  never  knew  that  I  must  n't  be.  The  money  was 
given  to  me  as  I  asked  for  it — and  there  were  so 
many,  so  many  claims, — oh,  I  can't  say  that  I  'm 
sorry  that  it  is  gone  as  it  went.  'But  now  that  we 
are  very  poor,  I  want  it  to  be  my  pleasures,  rather 
than  hers,  that  are  cut  off ;  she  depends  so  upon  her 
pleasures,  her  comforts.  She  depends  more  upon 
her  maid,  for  instance,  than  I  do  even  upon  my 
friends.  To  go  without  Mary  this  winter  will  be 
hard,  of  course,  but  our  love  is  founded  on  deeper 
things  than  seeing  and  speaking ;  and  mama  would 
feel  it  tragic,  I  'm  quite  sure,  to  have  to  do  up  her 
own  hair. ' ' 

"Good  heaven,  my  dear  Imogen  J  if  you  are  so  poor, 
surely  she  can  learn  to  do  up  her  own  hair ! ' '  Jack 
burst  out,  the  more  vehemently  from  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Upton's  unprotesting,  unexplanatory  departure 
had,  to  his  own  consciousness,  involved  him  with 
Imogen  in  a  companionship  of  crudity  and  inappro- 
priateness.  She  would  not  interfere  with  their 
frankness,  but  she  would  not  be  frank  with  them. 
She  did  n't  care  a  penny  for  what  his  impression  of 
her  might  be.  Imogen  might  fit  as  many  responsi 
bilities  upon  her  shoulders  as  she  liked  and,  with  her 
long  training  in  a  school  of  reticences  and  com 
posures,  she  would  remain  placid  and  indifferent. 
So  Jack  worked  it  out,  and  he  resented,  for  Imogen 
and  for  himself,  such  tact  and  such  evasion.  He  wished 
that  they  had  been  more  crude,  more  inappropriate. 


96  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Thank  heaven  for  crudeness  if  morality  as  opposed 
to  manners  made  one  crude.  He  entrenched  himself 
in  that  morality  now,  open-eyed  to  its  seeming  prig- 
gislmess,  to  say,  "And  it  's  a  bigger  question  than 
that  of  her  pleasures  and  yours,  Imogen.  It  's  a 
question  of  right  and  wrong.  Mary  needs  you. 
Your  mother  ought  not  to  keep  a  maid  if  other 
people's  needs  are  to  be  sacrificed  to  her  luxuries." 

Imogen  was  looking  thoughtfully  into  the  fire,  her 
calmness  now  not  the  result  of  mastery;  her  own 
serene  assurance  was  with  her. 

"I  've  thought  of  all  that,  Jack;  I  've  weighed  it, 
and  though  I  feel  it,  as  you  do,  a  question  of  right 
and  wrong,  I  don't  feel  that  I  can  force  it  upon  her. 
It  would  be  like  taking  its  favorite  doll  from  a  child. 
She  is  trying,  I  do  believe,  to  atone ;  she  is  trying  to 
do  her  duty  by  making,  as  it  were,  une  acte  de 
presence;  one  wants  to  be  very  gentle  with  her ;  one 
does  n't  want  to  make  things  more  difficult  than 
they  must  already  seem.  Poor,  dear  little  mama. 
But  as  for  me,  Jack,  it  's  more  than  pleasures 
that  I  have  to  give  up.  I  have  to  say  no  to  some  of 
those  claims  that  I  've  given  my  life  to.  It  's  like 
cutting  into  my  heart  to  do  it. ' ' 

She  turned  away  her  head  to  hide  the  quiet  tears 
that  rose  involuntarily,  and  by  the  sight  of  her  noble 
distress,  by  the  realization,  too,  of  such  magnanimity 
toward  the  trivial  little  mother,  Jack's  inner  emo 
tion  was  pushed,  suddenly,  past  all  the  bolts  and 
barriers.  Turning  a  little  pale,  he  leaned  forward 
and  took  her  hand,  stammering  as  he  said:  "Dear, 
dearest  Imogen,  you  know — you  know  what  I  want 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  97 

to  ask— whenever  you  will  let  me  speak;  you  know 
the  right  I  want  to  claim — " 

It  had  come,  the  moment  of  avowal ;  but  they  had 
glided  so  quietly  upon  it  that  he  felt  himself  unpre 
pared  for  his  own  declaration.  It  was  Imogen's 
tranquil  acceptance,  rather  than  his  own  eagerness, 
that  made  the  situation  seem  real. 

"I  know,  dear  Jack,  of  course  I  know, "  she  said. 
"It  has  been  a  deep,  a  peaceful  joy  for  a  long  time 
to  feel  that  I  was  first  with  you.  Let  it  rest  there, 
for  the  present,  dear  Jack." 

"I  've  not  made  anything  less  joyful  or  less  peace 
ful  for  you  by  speaking  ? ' ' 

"No,  no,  dear.  It  's  only  that  I  could  n't  think 
of  it,  for  some  time  yet. ' ' 

"You  promise  me  that,  meanwhile,  you  will  think 
of  me,  as  your  friend,  just  as  happily  as  before?" 

"Just  as  happily,  dear  Jack;  I  could  never,  as 
long  as  you  are  you  and  I  am  I,  think  of  you  in  any 
other  way."  And  she  went  on,  with  her  tranquil 
radiance  of  aspect,  "I  have  always  meant,  you 
know,  to  make  something  of  my  life  before  I  chose 
what  to  do  with  it. ' ' 

Jack,  too,  thought  Imogen's  life  a  flower  so  pre 
cious  that  it  must  be  placed  where  it  could  best 
bloom ;  but,  feeling  in  her  dispassionateness  a  hurt 
to  his  hope  that  it  would  best  bloom  in  his  care,  he 
asked:  "Might  n't  the  making  something  of  it  come 
after  the  choice,  dear  ? ' ' 

Very  clear  as  to  what  was  her  own  meaning, 
Imogen  shook  her  lovely,  unconfused  head.  "No, 
only  the  real  need  could  rightly  choose,  and  one  can 


98  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

only  know  the  real  need  when  one  has  made  the  real 
self." 

These  were  Jack's  own  views,  but,  hearing  them 
from  her  lips,  they  chilled. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  your  self,  already,  is  very 
real,"  he  said,  smiling  a  little  ruefully.  And 
Imogen  now,  though  firm,  was  very  wonderful,  for, 
leaning  to  him,  she  put  for  a  moment  her  hand  on 
his  and  said,  smiling  back  with  the  tranquil  tender 
ness:  "Not  yet,  not  quite  yet,  Jack;  but  we  trust 
each  other's  truth,  and  we  can't  but  trust,— I  do, 
dear  Jack,  with  all  my  heart,— that  it  can  never  part 
us." 

He  kissed  her  hand  at  that,  and  promised  to  trust 
and  to  be  patient,  and  Imogen  presently  lifted  mat 
ters  back  into  their  accustomed  place,  saying  that 
he  must  help  her  with  her  project  for  building  a 
country  home  for  her  crippled  children.  She  had 
laid  the  papers  before  him  and  they  were  deep  in 
Avays  and  means  when  a  sharp,  imperious  scratch 
ing  at  the  door  interrupted  them. 

Imogen's  face,  as  she  raised  it,  showed  a  touch  of 
weary  impatience.  "Mamma's  dog,"  she  said.  "He 
can't  find  her.  Let  him  scratch.  He  will  go  away 
when  no  one  answers. ' ' 

"Oh,  let  's  satisfy  him  that  she  is  n't  here,"  said 
Jack,  who  was  full  of  a  mild,  though  alien,  consid 
eration  for  animals. 

"Can  you  feel  any  fondness  for  such  wisps  of 
sentimentality  and  greediness  as  that?"  Imogen 
asked,  as  the  tiny  griffon  darted  into  the  room  and 
ran  about,  sniffing  with  interrogative  anxiety. 


99 

"Not  fondness,  perhaps,  but  amused  liking." 

"There,  now  you  see  he  will  whine  and  bark  to 
be  let  out  again.  He  is  as  arrogant  and  as  trouble 
some  as  a  spoilt  child. ' ' 

"I  '11  hold  him  until  she  comes,"  said  Jack.  "I 
say,  he  is  a  nice  little  beast— full  of  gratitude;  see 
him  lick  my  hand."  He  had  picked  up  the  dog  and 
come  back  to  her. 

"I  really  disapprove  of  such  absurd  creatures," 
said  Imogen.  "Their  very  existence  seems  a  wrong 
to  themselves  and  to  the  world. ' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  know."  Theoretically  Jack  agreed 
with  her  as  to  the  extravagant  folly  of  such  morsels 
of  frivolity ;  but,  holding  the  griffon  as  he  was,  meet 
ing  its  merry,  yet  melancholy,  eyes,  evading  its  affec 
tionate,  caressing  leaps  toward  his  cheek,  he  could  n't 
echo  her  reasonable  rigor.  ' '  They  take  something  the 
place  of  flowers  in  life,  I  suppose." 

"What  takes  the  place  of  flowers?"  Mrs.  Upton 
asked.  She  had  come  in  while  they  spoke  and  her 
tone  of  kind,  mild  inquiry  slightly  soothed  Jack's 
ruffled  sensibilities. 

"This,"  said  he,  holding  out  her  possession  to  her. 

' '  Oh,  Tison !  How  good  of  you  to  take  care  of 
him.  He  was  looking  for  me,  poor  pet." 

"Imogen  was  wondering  as  to  the  uses  of  such 
creatures  and  I  placed  them  in  the  decorative  cate 
gory,"  Jack  went  on,  determined  to  hold  his  own 
firmly  against  any  unjustifiable  claims  of  either 
Tison  or  his  mistress.  He  accused  himself  of  a 
tendency  to  soften  under  her  glance  when  it  was 
so  kindly  and  so  consciously  bent  upon  him.  Her 


100  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

indifference  cut  him  and  made  him  hostile,  and 
both  softness  and  hostility  were,  as  he  told  himself, 
symptoms  of  a  silly  sensitiveness.  The  proper  atti 
tude  was  one  of  firmness  and  humor. 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  don't  care  for  dogs,"  Mrs. 
Upton  said.  She  had  gone  back  to  her  seat,  taking 
up  her  work  and  passing  her  hand  over  Tison's  silky 
back  as  he  established  himself  in  her  lap. 

' '  Oh  yes,  I  do ;  I  care  for  flowers,  too, ' '  said  Jack, 
folding  his  arms  and  leaning  back  against  the  table, 
while  Imogen  sat  before  her  papers,  observant  of  the 
little  encounter. 

"But  they  are  r\^t  at  all  in  the  same  category. 
And  surely,"  Mrs.  Upton  continued,  smiling  up  at 
him,  "one  does  n't  justify  one's  fondness  for  a  crea 
ture  by  its  uses." 

"I  think  one  really  must,  you  know,"  our  ethical 
young  man  objected,  feeling  that  he  must  grasp  his 
latent  severity  when  Mrs.  Upton's  vague  sweetness 
of  regard  was  affecting  him  somewhat  as  her  dog's 
caressing  little  tongue  had  done.  "If  a  fondness  is 
one  we  have  a  right  to,  we  can  justify  it,— and  it 
can  only  be  justified  by  its  utility,  actual  or  poten 
tial,  to  the  world  we  are  a  part  of." 

Mrs.  Upton  continued  to  smile  as  though  she  did 
not  suspect  him  of  wishing  to  be  taken  seriously. 
"One  does  n't  reason  like  that  before  one  allows 
oneself  to  become  fond. ' ' 

"There  are  lots  of  things  we  must  reason  about 
to  get  rid  of,"  Jack  smiled  back. 

"That  sounds  very  chiJly  and  uncomfortable.    Be- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  101 

sides,  something  loving,  pretty,  responsive — some 
thing  that  one  can  make  very  happy— is  useful  to 
one." 

"But  only  that,"  Imogen  now  intervened,  com 
ing  to  her  friend's  assistance  with  decision.  "It 
serves  only  one's  own  pleasure; — that  is  its  only  use. 
And  when  I  think,  mama  darling,  of  all  the  cold, 
hungry,  unhappy  children  in  this  great  town  to 
night,— of  all  the  suffering  children,  such  as  those 
that  Jack  and  I  have  been  trying  to  help, — I  can't 
but  feel  that  your  petted  little  dog  there  robs  some 
one." 

Mrs.  Upton,  looking  down  at  her  dog,  now  asleep 
in  a  profound  content,  continued  to  stroke  him  in 
silence. 

Jack  felt  that  Imogen's  tone  was  perhaps  a  little 
too  rigorous  for  the  occasion.  "Not  that  we  want 
you  to  turn  Tison  out  into  the  streets,"  he  said 
jocosely. 

"No;  you  must  n't  ask  that  of  me,"  Valerie  an 
swered,  her  tone  less  light  than  before.  "It  seems 
to  me  that  there  is  a  place  for  dear  unreasonable 
things  in  the  world.  All  that  Tison  is  made  for  is 
to  be  petted.  A  child  is  a  different  problem." 

"And  a  problem  that  it  needs  all  our  time,  all 
our  strength,  all  our  love  and  faith  to  deal  with," 
Imogen  returned,  with  gentle  sadness.  "You  are 
robbing  some  one,  mama  dear." 

"  Apparently  we  are  a  naughty  couple,  you  and  I, 
Tison,"  Mrs.  Upton  said,  "but  I  am  too  old  and 
you  too  eternally  young  to  mend." 


102  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

She  had  begun  to  crochet  again;  but,  though  she 
resumed  all  her  lightness,  her  mildness,  Jack  fancied 
that  she  was  a  little  angry. 

When  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Upton  said,  looking  up 
at  her  daughter:  "Of  course  you  must  have  Mary 
Osborne  to  stay  with  you,  Imogen." 

Imogen  had  gone  to  the  fire  and  was  gazing  into  it. 
She  was  full  of  a  deep  contentment.  By  her  atti 
tude  toward  Jack  this  evening,  her  reception  of  his 
avowal,  she  had  completely  vindicated  herself. 
Peace  of  mind  was  impossible  to  Imogen  unless  her 
conscience  were  clear  of  any  cloud,  and  now  the 
morning's  humiliating  fear  was  more  than  atoned 
for.  She  was  not  the  woman  to  clutch  at  safety 
when  pain  threatened;  she  had  spoken  to  him  ex 
actly  as  she  would  have  spoken  yesterday,  before 
knowing  that  she  was  poor.  And,  under  this  satis 
faction,  was  the  serene  gladness  of  knowing  him  so 
surely  hers. 

Her  face,  as  she  turned  it  toward  her  mother,  ad 
justed  itself  to  a  task  of  loving  severity.  "I  cannot 
think  of  having  her,  mama." 

"Why  not?  She  will  add  almost  nothing  to  our 
expenses.  I  never  for  a  moment  dreamed  of  your 
not  having  her.  I  don't  know  why  you  thought  it 
my  wish." 

Imogen  looked  steadily  at  her:  "Not  your  wish, 
mama  ?  After  what  you  told  me  this  morning  ? ' ' 

"I  only  said  that  we  must  be  economical  and 
careful. ' ' 

"To  have  one's  friends  to  stay  with  one  is  a 
luxury,  is  not  to  be  economical  and  careful.  I  don't 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  103 

forget  what  you  said  of  my  expensive  mode  of  life, 
of  my  clothes— a  reproof  that  I  am  very  sure  was 
well  deserved;  I  should  not  have  been  so  thought 
less.  But  it  is  not  fair,  mama,  really  it  is  not  fair 
— you  must  see  that— to  reproach  me,  and  my  father 
—by  implication,  even  if  not  openly — with  our  reck 
less  charities,  and  then  refuse  to  take  the  responsi 
bility  for  my  awakening." 

Imogen,  though  she  spoke  with  emotion,  spoke 
without  haste.  Her  mother  sat  with  downcast  eyes, 
working  on,  and  a  deep  color  rose  to  her  cheeks, 

"I  do  want  things  to  be  open  and  honest  between 
us,  mama,"  Imogen  went  on.  "We  are  so  very 
different  in  temperament,  in  outlook,  in  conviction, 
that  to  be  happy  together  we  must  be  very  true 
with  each  other.  I  want  you  always  to  say  just 
what  you  mean,  so  that  I  may  understand  what  you 
really  want  of  me  and  may  clearly  see  whether  I 
can  do  it  or  not.  I  have  such  a  horror  of  any  am 
biguity  in  human  relations.  I  believe  so  in  the  most 
perfect  truth." 

Valerie  was  still  silent  for  some  moments  after 
this.  When  she  did  speak  it  was  only  of  the  prac 
tical  matter  that  they  had  begun  with.  "I  do  want 
you  to  have  your  friends  with  you,  Imogen.  It  will 
not  be  a  luxury.  I  will  see  that  we  can  afford  it. J ' 

"I  shall  be  very,  very  glad  of  that,  dear.  I  wish 
I  had  understood  before.  You  see,  just  now,  before 
Jack,  I  felt  that  you  were  hurt,  displeased,  by  my 
inference  from  our  talk  this  morning.  You  made 
me  feel  by  your  whole  manner  that  you  found  me 
graceless,  tasteless,  to  blame  in  some  way — perhaps 


104  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

for  speaking  about  it  to  Jack.  Jack  is  very  near 
me,  mama." 

"But  not  near  me." 

"Ah,  you  made  me  feel  that,  too;  and  that  you 
reproached  me  with  having,  as  it  were,  forced  an 
intimacy  upon  you. ' ' 

Valerie  was  drawing  her  dark  brows  together,  as 
though  her  clue  had  indeed  escaped  her.  Imogen's 
mind  slipped  from  link  to  link  of  the  trivial,  yet 
signficant,  matter  with  an  ease  and  certainty  of 
purpose  that  was  like  the  movement  of  her  own  sleek 
needle,  drawing  loop  after  loop  of  wool  into  a  pat 
tern  ;  but  what  Imogen 's  pattern  was  she  could 
hardly  tell.  She  abandoned  the  wish  to  make  clear 
her  own  interpretation,  looking  up  presently  with  a 
faint  smile.  "I  'm  sorry,  dear.  I  meant  nothing  of 
all  that,  I  assure  you.  And  as  to  'Jack,'  it  was  only 
that  I  did  not  care  to  seem  to  justify  myself  before 
him— at  your  expense  it  might  seem." 

"Oh,  mama  dear!"  Imogen  laughed  out.  "You 
thought  me  so  wrong,  then,  that  you  were  afraid  of 
harming  his  devotion  to  me  by  letting  him  see  how 
very  wrong  it  was!  Jack's  devotion  is  very  clear 
sighted.  It  's  a  devotion  that,  if  it  saw  wrongs  in 
me,  would  only  ask  to  show  them  to  me,  too,  and  to 
stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  me  in  fighting 
them." 

"He  must  be  a  remarkable  young  man,"  said 
Valerie,  quite  without  irony. 

"He  is  like  most  real  people  in  this  country, 
mama,"  said  Imogen,  on  a  graver  note.  "We 
have,  I  think,  evolved  a  new  standard  of  devotion. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  105 

We  don't  want  to  have  dexterous  mamas  throw 
ing  powder  in  the  eyes  of  the  men  who  care  for  us 
and  sacrificing  their  very  conception  of  right  on  the 
altar  of  false  maternal  duty.  The  duty  we  owe  to 
any  one  is  our  truth.  There  is  no  higher  duty  than 
that.  Had  I  been  as  ungenerous,  as  unkind,  as  you, 
I  'm  afraid,  imagined  me  this  evening,  it  would 
still  have  been  your  duty,  to  him,  to  me,  to  bring 
the  truth  fearlessly  to  the  light.  I  would  have  been 
amused,  had  n't  I  been  so  hurt,  to  see  you,  as  you 
fancied,  shielding  me !  Please  never  forget,  dear,  in 
the  future,  that  Jack  and  I  are  truth-lovers. ' ' 

Looking  slightly  bewildered  by  this  cascade  of 
smooth  fluency,  Valerie,  still  with  her  deepened 
color,  here  murmured  that  she,  too,  cared  for  the 
truth,  but  the  current  bore  her  on.  "I  don't  think 
you  sec  it,  mama,  else  you  could  hardly  have  hurt 
me  so." 

"Did  I  hurt  you  so?" 

"Why,  mama,  don't  you  imagine  that  I  am 
made  of  flesh  and  blood?  It  was  dreadful  to  me, 
your  leaving  me  like  that,  with  the  situation  on  my 
hands." 

Valerie,  after  another  little  silence,  now  repeated, 
"I  'm  sorry,  dear,"  and,  as  if  accepting  contrition, 
Imogen  stooped  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 


IX 


(ART'S  visit  took  place  about  six  weeks 
later,  when  Jack  Pennington  was  again 
in  New  York,  and  Mrs.  Wake,  re 
turned  from  Europe,  had  been  for  some 
time  established  in  her  little  flat  not 
very  far  away  in  Washington  Square. 

The  retrenchments  in  the  Upton  household  had 
taken  place  and  Mary  found  her  friend  putting  her 
shoulder  to  the  wheel  with  melancholy  courage. 
The  keeping  up  of  old  beneficences  meant  redoubled 
labor  and,  as  she  said  to  Mary,  with  the  smile  that 
Mary  found  so  wonderful :  ' '  It  seems  to  me  now 
that  whenever  I  put  my  hand  out  to  help,  it  gets 
caught  and  pinched."  Mary,  helper  and  admirer, 
said  to  Jack  that  the  way  in  which  Imogen  had 
gathered  up  her  threads,  allowing  hardly  one  to 
snap,  was  too  beautiful.  These  young  people,  like 
the  minor  characters  in  a  play,  met  often  in  the 
drawing-room  while  Imogen  was  busy  up-stairs  or 
gone  out  upon  some  important  errand.  Just  now, 
Miss  Bocock's  lectures  having  been  set  going,  the 
organization  of  a  performance  to  be  given  for  the 
crippled  children's  country  home  was  engaging  all 
her  time.  Tableaux  from  the  Greek  drama  had 
been  fixed  on,  the  Pottses  were  full  of  eagerness, 
and  Jack  had  been  pressed  into  service  as  stage- 

106 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  107 

manager.  The  distribution  of  roles,  the  grouping  of 
the  pictures,  the  dressing  and  the  scenery  were  in 
his  hands. 

"It  's  really  extraordinary,  the  way  in  which, 
amidst  her  grief,  she  goes  through  all  this  business, 
all  this  organization,  getting  people  together  for  her 
committee,  securing  the  theater,"  said  Mary. 
"Is  n't  it  too  bad  that  she  can't  be  in  the  tableaux 
herself  ?  She  would  have  been  the  loveliest  of  all. ' ' 

Jack,  rather  weary,  after  an  encounter  with  a 
band  of  dissatisfied  performers  in  the  library,  said: 
"One  could  have  put  one's  heart  into  making  an 
Antigone  of  her;  that  's  what  I  wanted — the  filial 
Antigone,  leading  OEdipus  through  the  olive  groves 
of  Colonus.  It  's  bitter,  instead  of  that,  to  have  to 
rig  Mrs.  Scott  out  as  Cassandra ;  will  you  believe  it, 
Mary,  she  insists  on  being  Cassandra — with  that 
figure,  that  nose !  And  she  has  fixed  her  heart  on 
the  scene  where  Cassandra  stands  in  the  car  outside 
the  house  of  Agamemnon.  She  fancies  that  she  is 
a  tragic,  ominous  type." 

"She  has  nice  arms,  you  know,"  said  the  kindly 
Mary. 

' '  Don 't  I  know ! ' '  said  Jack.  ' '  Well,  it  's  through 
them  that  I  shall  circumvent  her.  Her  arms  shall 
be  fully  displayed  and  her  face  turned  away  from 
the  audience." 

"Jack,  dear,  you  must  n't  be  spiteful,"  Mary 
shook  her  head  a  little  at  him.  "I  've  thought  that 
I  felt  just  a  touch  of— of,  well— flippancy  in  you 
once  or  twice  lately.  You  must  n't  deceive  poor 
Mrs.  Scott.  It  's  that  that  is  so  wonderful  about 


108  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Imogen.  I  really  believe  that  she  could  make  her 
give  up  the  part,  if  she  set  herself  to  it ;  she  might 
even  tell  her  that  her  nose  was  too  snub  for  it — and 
she  would  not  wound  her.  It  's  extraordinary  her 
power  over  people.  They  feel,  I  think,  the  tender 
ness,  the  disinterestedness,  that  lies  beneath  the 
truth." 

"I  suppose  there  's  no  hope  of  persuading  her  to 
be  Antigone  ? ' ' 

"Don't  suggest  it  again,  Jack.  The  idea  hurt 
her  so. ' ' 

' '  I  won 't.    I  understand.    When  is  Rose  coming  ? ' ' 

"  In  a  day  or  two.  She  is  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
winter  with  the  Langleys.  What  do  you  think  of 
for  her?" 

"Helen  appearing  between  the  soldiers,  before 
Hecuba  and  Menelaus.  I  only  wish  that  Imogen 
had  more  influence  over  Rose.  Your  theory  about 
her  power  does  n  't  hold  good  there. ' ' 

"Ah,  even  there,  I  don't  give  up  hope.  Rose 
does  n't  really  know  Imogen.  And  then  Rose  is  a 
child  in  many  ways,  a  dear,  but  a  spoiled,  child. ' ' 

"WThat  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Upton,  now  that  you 
see  something  of  her?"  Jack  asked  abruptly. 

"She  is  very  sweet  and  kind,  Jack.  She  is  work 
ing  so  hard  for  all  of  us.  She  is  going  to  make  my 
robe.  She  is  addressing  envelopes  now— and  you 
know  how  dull  that  is.  I  am  sure  I  used  to  misjudge 
her.  But,  she  is  very  queer,  Jack. ' ' 

"Queer?  In  what  way  queer?"  Jack  asked,  plac 
ing  himself  on  the  sofa,  his  legs  stretched  out  before 
him,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  109 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  express  it.  She  is  so  light, 
yet  so  deep ;  and  I  can 't  make  out  why  or  where  she 
is  deep ;  it  's  there  that  the  queerness  comes  in.  I 
feel  it  in  her  smile,  the  way  she  looks  at  you;  I  be 
lieve  I  feel  it  more  than  she  does.  She  does  n't  know 
she  's  deep." 

"Not  really  found  herself  yet,  you  think?"  Jack 
questioned ;  the  phrase  was  one  often  in  use  between 
these  young  people. 

Mary  mused.  "Somehow  that  does  n't  apply  to 
her— I  don't  believe  she  '11  ever  look  for  herself." 

"You  think  it  's  you  she  finds,"  Jack  suggested; 
voicing  a  dim  suspicion  that  had  come  to  him  once 
or  twice  of  late. 

"What  do  you  mean,  exactly,  Jack?" 

"I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  laughed  a  little. 
"So  you  like  her?"  he  questioned. 

"I  think  I  do;  against  my  judgment,  against  my 
will,  as  it  were.  But  that  does  n't  imply  that  one 
approves  of  her." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  Jack,  you  know  the  way  you  felt  about  it, 
the  day  you  and  I  and  Rose  talked  it  over. ' ' 

"But  we  had  n't  seen  her  then.  What  I  want  to 
know  is  just  what  you  feel,  now  that  you  have  seen 
her." 

Mary  had  another  conscientious  pause.  "How 
can  one  approve  of  her  while  Imogen  is  there  ? ' '  she 
said  at  last. 

"You  mean  that  Imogen  makes  one  remember 
everything?" 

"Yes.    And  Imogen  is  everything  she  is  n't." 


110  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

' '  So  that,  by  contrast,  she  loses. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  and  do  you  know,  Jack, ' '  Mary  lowered  her 
voice  while  she  glanced  up  at  Mrs.  Upton's  portrait, 
"I  can  hardly  believe  that  she  has  suffered,  really 
suffered,  about  him,  at  all.  She  is  so  unlike  a 
widow." 

' '  I  suppose  she  felt  herself  a  widow  long  ago. ' ' 

"She  had  no  right  to  feel  it,  Jack.  His  death 
should  cast  a  deeper  shadow  on  her." 

As  Jack,  shamefully,  could  see  Mr.  Upton  as 
shadow  removed,  he  only  said,  after  a  slight  pause : 
"Perhaps  that  's  another  of  the  things  she  does  n't 
obviously  show — suffering,  I  mean." 

"I  'm  afraid  that  she  's  incapable  of  feeling  any 
conviction  of  sin,"  said  Mary,  "and  that  wise,  old- 
fashioned  phrase  expresses  just  what  I  mean  as  to 
a  lack  in  her.  On  the  other  hand,  in  a  warm 
hearted,  pagan  sort  of  way,  she  is,  I  'm  quite  sure, 
one  of  the  kindest  of  people.  Her  maid,  when  she 
went  back  to  England  the  other  day,  cried  dreadfully 
at  leaving  her,  and  Mrs.  Upton  cried  too.  I  hap 
pened  to  find  them  together  just  before  Felkin  went. 
Now  I  had  imagined,  in  my  narrow  way,  that  a 
spoilt  beauty  was  always  a  tyrant  to  her  maid. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  so  her  maid  's  gone !  How  does  she  do  her 
hair,  then?" 

"Do  her  hair,  Jack?  What  a  funny  question. 
As  we  all  do,  of  course,  with  her  wits  and  her  hands, 
I  suppose.  Any  one  with  common-sense  can  do  their 
hair." 

Jack  kept  silence,  reflecting  on  the  picture  that 
Imogen  had  drawn  for  him— the  child  bereft  of  its 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  111 

toy.  Had  it  given  it  up  willingly,  or  had  it  been 
forced  to  relinquish  it  by  the  pressure  of  circum 
stance?  Remembering  his  own  stringent  words,  he 
felt  a  qualm  of  compunction.  Had  he  armed  Imogen 
for  this  ruthlessness  ? 

The  lustrous  folds  of  Mrs.  Upton's  hair,  at  lunch, 
reassured  him  as  to  her  fitness  to  do  without  Felkin 
in  that  particular,  but  his  mind  still  dwelt  on  the 
picture  of  the  crying  child  and  he  asked  Imogen, 
when  he  was  next  alone  with  her,  how  the  departure 
of  Felkin  had  been  effected. 

"You  could  n't  manage  to  let  her  keep  the  toy, 
then?" 

"The  toy?"    Imogen  was  blank. 

He  enlightened  her.  "Her  maid,  you  know,  who 
had  to  do  her  hair. ' ' 

"Oh,  Felkin!  No,"  Imogen's  face  was  a  little 
quizzical,  "it  could  n't  be  managed.  I  thought  it 
over,  what  you  said  about  sacrificing  other  people's 
needs  to  her  luxuries,  and  felt  that  you  were  right. 
So  I  put  it  to  her,  very,  very  gently,  of  course,  very 
tactfully,  so  that  I  believe  that  she  thinks  that  it 
was  she  who  initiated  the  idea.  Perhaps  she  had 
intended  from  the  first  to  send  her  back;  it  was  so 
obvious  that  a  woman  as  poor  as  she  is  ought  not  to 
have  a  maid.  All  the  same,  I  felt  that  she  was  a 
little  vexed  with  me,  poor  dear.  But,  apart  from 
the  economical  question,  I  'm  glad  I  insisted.  It  's 
so  much  better  for  her  not  to  be  so  dependent  on 
another  woman.  It  's  a  little  degrading  for  both  of 
them,  I  think." 

Jack,  who  theoretically  disapproved  of  all  such 


112  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

undemocratic  gauds,  was  sure  that  Mrs.  Upton  was 
much  better  off  without  her  maid ;  yet  something  of 
the  pathos  of  that  image  remained  with  him— the 
child  deprived  of  its  toy;  something,  too,  of  dis 
comfort  over  that  echo  of  her  father  that  he  now 
and  then  detected  in  Imogen's  serene  sense  of  right- 
ness. 

This  discomfort,  this  uneasy  sense  of  echoes,  re 
turned  more  than  once  in  the  days  that  followed. 
Mrs.  Upton  seemed,  as  yet,  to  have  made  very  little 
difference  in  the  situation;  she  had  glided  into  it 
smoothly,  unobtrusively — a  silken  shadow ;  when  she 
was  among  them  it  was  of  that  she  made  him  think ; 
and  in  her  shadowed  quietness,  as  of  a  tranquil  mist 
at  evening  or  at  dawn,  he  more  and  more  came  to 
feel  a  peace  and  sweetness.  But  it  was  always  in 
this  sweetness  and  this  peace  that  the  contrasting 
throb  of  restlessness  stirred. 

He  saw  her  at  the  meals  he  frequently  attended, 
meals  where  the  conversation,  for  the  most  part,  was 
carried  on  by  Imogen.  Mrs.  Wake,  also  a  frequent 
guest,  was  a  very  silent  one,  and  Mary  an  earnest 
listener. 

If  Imogen 's  talk  had  ceased  to  be  very  interesting 
to  Jack,  that  was  only  because  he  knew  it  so  well. 
He  knew  it  so  well  that,  while  she  talked,  quietly, 
fluently,  dominatingly,  he  was  able  to  remain  the 
dispassionate  observer  and  to  wonder  how  it  im 
pressed  her  mother.  Jack  watched  Mrs.  Upton,  while 
Imogen  talked,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hand  and 
raising  contemplative  eyes  to  her  daughter.  Those 
soft,  dark  eyes,  eyes  almost  somnolent  under  their 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  113 

dusky  brows  and  half -drooped  lashes,— how  dif 
ferent  they  were  from  Imogen's,  as  different  as 
dusk  from  daylight.  And  they  were  not  really  sad, 
not  really  sleepy,  eyes;  that  was  the  surprise  of 
them  when,  after  the  downcast  mystery,  they  raised 
to  one  suddenly  their  penetrating  intelligence.  The 
poetry  of  their  aspect  was  constantly  contradicted 
by  the  prose  of  their  glance.  But  she  did  more  than 
turn  her  own  poetry  into  prose,  so  he  told  himself; 
she  turned  other  people's  into  prose,  too.  Her 
glance  became  to  him  a  running  translation  into 
sane,  almost  merry,  commonplace,  of  Imogen's  soar 
ings.  He  knew  that  she  made  the  translation  and 
he  knew  that  it  was  a  prose  one,  but  its  meaning  she 
kept  for  herself.  It  was  when,  now  and  then,  he  felt 
that  he  had  hit  upon  a  word,  a  phrase,  that  the 
discomfort,  the  bewilderment,  came ;  and  he  would 
then  turn  resolutely  to  Imogen  and  grasp  firmly  his 
own  conception  of  her  essential  meaning,  a  meaning 
that  could  bear  any  amount  of  renderings. 

She  was  so  beautiful,  sitting  there,  the  girl  he 
loved,  her  pearly  face  and  throat,  her  coronet  of 
pale,  bright  gold,  rising  from  the  pathetic  blackness, 
that  it  might  well  be  that  the  mother  felt  only  his 
own  joy  in  her  loveliness  and  could  spare  no  margin 
of  consciousness  for  critical  comment.  She  was  so 
lovely,  so  young,  so  good ;  so  jaded,  too,  with  all  the 
labor,  the  giving  of  herself,  the  long  thoughts  for 
others;  why  should  n't  she  be  dominant  and  as 
sured?  Why  should  n't  she  even  be  didactic  and 
slightly  complacent  ?  If  there  was  sometimes  a  trite 
ness  in  her  pronouncements,  a  lack  of  humor,  of 


114  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

spontaneity,  in  her  enthusiasms,  surely  no  one  who 
loved  her  could  recognize  them  with  any  but  the 
tenderest  of  smiles.  He  felt  quite  sure  that  Mrs. 
Upton  recognized  them  with  nothing  else.  He  felt 
quite  sure  that  the  "deepest"  thing  in  Mrs.  Upton 
was  the  most  intense  interest  in  Imogen ;  but  he  felt 
sure,  too,  that  the  thing  above  it,  the  thing  that 
gazed  so  quietly,  so  dispassionately,  was  complete 
indifference  as  to  what  Imogen  might  be  saying. 
Did  n't  her  prose,  with  its  unemphatic  evenness, 
imply  that  some  enthusiasms  went  quite  without 
saying  and  that  some  questions  were  quite  disposed 
of  for  talk  just  because  they  were  so  firmly  estab 
lished  for  action  ?  When  he  had  reached  this  point 
of  query,  Jack  felt  rising  within  him  that  former 
sense  of  irritation  on  Imogen's  behalf,  and  on  his 
own.  After  all,  youthful  triteness  and  enthusiasm 
were  preferable  to  indifference.  In  the  stress  of  this 
irritation  he  felt,  at  moments,  a  shock  of  keen  sym 
pathy  for  the  departed  Mr.  Upton,  who  had,  no 
doubt,  often  felt  that  disconcerting  mingling  of  in 
terest  and  indifference  weigh  upon  his  dithyrambic 
ardors.  lie  often  felt  very  sorry  for  Mr.  Upton  as 
he  looked  at  his  widow.  It  was  better  to  feel  that 
than  to  feel  sorry  for  her  while  he  listened  to 
Imogen.  It  did  not  do  to  realize  too  keenly,  through 
Imogen's  echo,  what  it  must  have  been  to  listen  to 
Mr.  Upton  for  a  lifetime.  When,  on  rare  occasions, 
he  had  Mrs.  Upton  to  himself,  his  impulse  always 
was  to  "draw  her  out,"  to  extract  from  her  what 
were  her  impressions  of  things  in  general  and  what 
her  attitude  toward  life.  She  must  really,  by  this 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  115 

time,  have  enough  accepted  him  as  one  of  themselves 
to  feel  his  right  to  hear  all  sorts  of  impressions.  He 
was  used  to  talking  things  over,  talking  them,  in 
deed,  over  and  over ;  turning  them,  surveying  them, 
making  the  very  most  of  all  their  possible  signifi 
cance,  with  men  and  women  to  whom  his  relation 
ship  was  half  brotherly  .and  wholly  comradely,  and 
whom,  in  the  small,  fresh,  clear  world,  where  he  had 
spent  his  life,  he  had  known  since  boyhood.  It  was 
a  very  ethical  and  intellectual  little  world,  this  of 
Jack's,  where  impressions  passed  from  each  to  each, 
as  if  by  right,  where  some  suspicion  was  felt  for 
those  that  could  not  be  shared,  and  where  to  keep 
anything  so  worth  while  to  oneself  was  almost  to 
rob  a  whole  circle.  Reticence  had  the  distinct  flavor 
of  selfishness  and  uncertainty  of  mind,  the  flavor  of 
laxity.  If  one  were  earnest  and  ardent  and  dis 
ciplined  one  either  knew  what  one  thought,  and 
shared  it,  or  one  knew  what  one  wanted  to  think, 
and  one  sought  it.  Jack  suspected  Mrs.  Upton  of 
being  neither  earnest,  nor  ardent,  nor  disciplined; 
but  he  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that,  as  a  new 
inmate  of  his  world,  she  could  n't  be,  if  only  she 
would  make  the  effort,  as  clear  as  the  rest  of  it,  and 
that  she  was  n't  as  ready,  if  manipulated  with  tact 
and  sympathy,  to  give  and  to  receive. 

Wandering  about  the  drawing-room,  while,  as 
usual  in  her  leisure  moments,  she  crocheted  a  small 
jacket,  Tison  in  her  lap,  he  wondered,  for  instance, 
what  she  thought  of  the  drawing-room.  He  knew 
that  it  was  very  different  from  the  drawing-room  in 
her  Surrey  cottage,  and  very  different  from  the 


lid  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

drawing-rooms  with  which,  as  he  had  heard  from 
Imogen,  she  was  familiar  in  the  capitals  of  Europe. 
Mrs.  Upton  was,  to-day,  crocheting  a  blue  border  as 
peacefully  as  though  she  had  faced  pseudo-Correg- 
gios  and  crimson  brocade  and  embossed  wall-paper 
all  her  life,  so  that  either  her  tastes  shared  the  indif 
ference  of  her  intelligence  or  else  her  power  of  self- 
control  was  commendably  complete. 

"I  hope  that  you  are  coming  to  Boston  some  day," 
he  said  to  her  on  this  occasion,  the  occasion  of  the 
blue  border.  "I  'd  like  so  much  to  show  you  my 
studio  there,  and  my  work.  I  'm  not  such  an  idler 
as  you  might  imagine." 

Mrs.  Upton  replied  that  she  should  never  for  a 
moment  imagine  him  an  idler  and  that  since  she  was 
going  to  Boston  to  stay  with  his  great-aunt,  a  dear 
but  too  infrequently  seen  friend  of  hers,  she  hoped 
soon  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  work.  "I  hear 
that  you  are  very  talented, ' '  she  added. 

Jack,  who  considered  that  he  was,  did  not  protest 
with  a  false  modesty,  but  went  on  to  talk  of  the  field 
of  art  in  general,  and  questioning  her,  skeptical  as 
to  her  statement  that  her  artistic  tastes  were  a  mere 
medley,  he  put  together  by  degrees  a  conception  of 
vague  dislikes  and  sharp  preferences.  But,  in  spite 
of  his  persistence  in  keeping  her  to  Chardin  and 
Japanese  prints,  she  would  pass  on  from  herself  to 
Imogen,  emphasizing  her  satisfaction  in  Imogen's 
great  interest  in  art.  "It  's  such  a  delightful  bond 
between  people."  And  Mrs.  Upton,  with  her  more 
than  American  parental  discretion,  smiled  her  ap 
proval  of  such  bonds. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  117 

Jack  reflected  some  moments  before  saying  that 
Imogen  knew,  perhaps,  more  than  she  cared.  He 
did  n't  think  that  Imogen  had,  exactly,  the  esthetic 
temperament.  And  that  there  was  no  confidential 
flavor  in  these  remarks  he  demonstrated  by  adding 
that  it  was  a  point  he  and  Imogen  often  discussed ; 
he  had  often  told  her  that  she  should  try  to  feel 
more  and  to  think  less,  so  that  Valerie  might 
amusedly  have  recalled  Imogen's  explanation  to  her 
of  the  fundamental  frankness  that  made  lovers  in 
America  such  "remarkable  young  men."  Jack's 
frankness,  evidently,  would  be  restrained  by  neither 
diffidence  nor  affection.  She  received  his  diagnosis 
of  her  daughter's  case  without  comment,  saying 
only,  after  a  moment,  while  she  turned  a  corner  of 
her  jacket,  "And  you  are  of  the  artistic  tempera 
ment,  I  suppose  ? ' ' 

"Well,  yes,"  he  owned,  "in  a  sense;  though  not 
in  that  in  which  the  word  has  been  so  often  misused. 
I  don't  see  the  artist  as  a  performing  acrobat  nor  as 
an  anarchist  in  ethics,  either.  I  think  that  art  is 
one  of  the  big  aspects  of  life  and  that  through  it 
one  gets  hold  of  a  big  part  of  reality." 

Mrs.  Upton,  mildly  intent  on  her  corner,  looked 
acquiescent. 

"I  think,"  Jack  went  on,  "that,  like  everything 
else  in  life  worth  having,  it  's  a  harmony  only  at 
tained  by  discipline  and  by  sacrifice.  And  it  's  es 
sentially  a  social,  not  a  selfish  attainment;  it  widens 
our  boundaries  of  comprehension  and  sympathy;  it 
reveals  brotherhood.  The  artist's  is  a  high  form  of 
service." 


118  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

He  suspected  Mrs.  Upton,  while  he  spoke,  of  dis 
agreement;  he  suspected  her,  also,  of  finding  him 
sententious ;  but  she  continued  to  look  interested,  so 
that,  quite  conscious  of  his  didactic  purpose  and 
amused  by  all  the  things  he  saw  in  their  situation, 
he  unfolded  to  her  his  conception  of  the  artist's 
place  in  the  social  organism. 

She  said,  finally,  "I  should  have  thought  that  art 
was  much  more  of  an  end  in  itself. ' ' 

''Ah,  there  we  come  to  the  philosophy  of  it,"  said 
Jack.  "It  is,  of  course,  a  sort  of  mysticism.  One 
lays  hold  of  something  eternal  in  all  achievement; 
but  then,  you  see,  one  finds  out  that  the  eternal  is  n  't 
cut  up  into  sections,  as  it  were — art  here,  ethics 
there— intellect  yonder;  one  finds  out  that  all 
that  is  eternal  is  bound  up  with  the  whole,  so  that 
you  can't  separate  beauty  from  goodness  and  truth 
any  more  than  you  can  divide  a  man's  moral  sense 
from  his  artistic  and  rational  interests. ' ' 

' '  Still,  it  's  in  sections  for  us,  surely  ?  What  very 
horrid  people  can  be  great  artists,"  Mrs.  Upton  half 
questioned,  half  mused. 

"  Ah,  I  don 't  believe  it !  I  don 't  believe  it ! "  Jack 
broke  out.  "You  '11  find  a  flaw  in  his  art,  if  you 
find  a  moral  chaos  in  him.  It  must  be  a  harmony ! ' ' 

The  corner  was  long  since  turned,  and  on  a  simple 
stretch  of  blue  Mrs.  Upton  now  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  smile  that  showed  him  that  whether  she  liked 
what  he  said  or  not,  she  certainly  liked  him.  It  was 
here  that  the  slight  bewilderment  came  in,  to  feel 
that  he  had  been  upholding  some  unmoral  doctrine 
she  would  have  smiled  in  just  the  same  way;  and 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  119 

the  bewilderment  was  greater  on  feeling  how  much 
he  liked  her  to  like  him.  Over  the  didactic  inten 
tions,  a  boyish,  an  answering,  smile  irradiated  his 
face. 

"I  'm  not  much  of  a  thinker,  but  I  suppose  that 
it  does  all  come  together,  somehow,"  she  said. 

''I  'm  sure  that  you  make  a  great  deal  of  beauty, 
wherever  you  are,"  Jack  answered  irrelevantly. 
"I  've  heard  that  your  cottage  in  England  is  so 
charming.  Mrs.  Wake  was  telling  me  about  it." 

"  It  is  a  dear  little  place. ' ' 

He  remembered,  suddenly,  that  the  room  where 
they  talked  contradicted  his  assertion,  and,  glancing 
about  it  furtively,  his  eye  traversed  the  highly 
glazed  surface  of  the  Correggio.  Mrs.  Upton's 
glance  followed  his.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  cared, 
so  seriously,  about  beauty, ' '  she  said,  smiling  quietly. 
"I  lived,  you  see,  for  a  good  many  years  in  this 
room,  just  as  it  is."  There  was  no  pathos  in  her 
voice.  Jack  brought  it  out  for  her. 

"  I  am  sure  you  hated  it ! " 

"I  thought  it  ugly,  of  course;  but  I  did  n't  mind 
so  much  as  all  that.  I  did  n  't  mind,  really,  so  much 
as  you  would. ' ' 

' '  Not  enough  to  try  to  have  it  right  ? ' ' 

He  was  marching  his  ethics  into  it,  and,  with  his 
question,  he  felt  now  that  he  had  brought  Mr. 
Upton  right  down  from  the  wall  and  between  them. 
Mr.  Upton  had  not  minded  the  room  at  all,  or  had 
minded  only  in  the  sense  that  he  made  it  a  matter 
of  conscience  not  to  mind.  And  aspects  of  it  Mr. 
Upton  had  thought  beautiful.  And  that  Mrs.  Upton 


120  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

felt  all  this  he  was  sure  from  the  very  vagueness  of 
her  answer. 

"That  would  have  meant  caring  more  for  beauty 
than  for  more  important  things  in  life. ' ' 

He  knew  that  it  was  in  horribly  bad  taste,  but  he 
could  n't  help  having  it  out,  now  that  he  had,  invol 
untarily,  gone  so  far.  "If  you  like  Chardin,  I  'm 
sure  that  that  hurts  you,"  and  he  indicated  the 
pseudo-Correggio,  this  time  openly. 

She  followed  his  gesture  with  brows  of  mildly 
lifted  inquiry.  "You  mean  it  's  not  genuine?" 

"That,  and  a  great  deal  more.  It  's  imitation, 
and  it  's  bad  imitation ;  and,  anyway,  the  original 
would  be  out  of  place  here — on  that  wall-paper." 

But  Mrs.  Upton  would  n  't  be  clear ;  would  n  't  be 
dr#wn;  would  n't,  simply,  share.  She  shook  her 
head ;  she  smiled,  as  though  he  must  accept  from  her 
her  lack  of  proper  feeling,  repeating,  "I  did  n't  like 
it,  but,  really,  I  never  minded  much."  And  he  had 
to  extract  what  satisfaction  he  could  from  her  final, 
vague  summing-up.  "It  went  with  the  chairs— and 
all  the  rest." 


AM  A,"  said  Imogen,  "who  is  Sir 
Basil?"  She  had  picked  up  a  letter 
from  the  hall  table  as  she  and  Jack 
passed  on  their  way  up-stairs  after 
their  walk,  and  she  carried  it  into  the 
library  with  the  question. 

Mrs.  Upton  was  making  tea  beside  the  fire,  Mrs. 
Wake  and  Mary  with  her,  and  as  Imogen  held  out 
the  letter  with  its  English  stamp  and  masculine 
handwriting  a  dusky  rose-color  mounted  to  her  face. 
Indeed,  in  taking  the  letter  from  hep  daughter's 
hand,  her  blush  was  so  obvious  that  a  slight  silence 
of  recognized  and  shared  embarrassment  made  itself 
felt. 

It  was  Jack  who  felt  it  most.  After  his  swiftly 
averted  glance  at  Mrs.  Upton  his  own  cheeks  had 
flamed  in  ignorant  sympathy.  He  was  able,  in  a 
moment,  to  see  that  it  might  have  been  the  fire,  or 
the  tea,  or  the  mere  suddenness  of  an  unexpected 
question  that  had  caused  the  look  of  helpless  girlish- 
ness,  but  the  memory  stayed  with  him,  a  tenderness 
and  a  solicitude  in  it. 

Imogen  had  apparently  seen  nothing.  She  went 
on,  pulling  off  her  gloves,  taking  off  her  hat,  glanc 
ing  at  her  radiant  white  and  rose  in  the  glass  while 

121 


122  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

she  questioned.  "I  remember  him  in  your  letters, 
but  remember  him  so  little— a  dull,  kind  old  coun 
try  squire,  the  impression,  I  think.  But  what  does 
a  dull,  kind  old  country  squire  find  to  write  about 
so  often?" 

If  Mrs.  Upton  could  n't  control  her  cheeks  she 
could  perfectly  control  her  manner,  and  though 
Jack 's  sympathy  guessed  at  some  pretty  decisive  irri 
tation  under  it,  he  could  but  feel  that  its  calm  dis 
posed  of  any  absurd  interpretations  that  the  blush 
might  have  aroused. 

"Yes,  I  have  often,  I  think,  mentioned  him  in  my 
letters,  Imogen,  though  not  in  those  terms.  He  is  a 
neighbor  of  mine  in  Surrey  and  a  friend." 

"Is  he  clever?"  Imogen  asked,  ignoring  the  cool 
ness  in  her  mother's  voice. 

"Not  particularly." 

"What  does  he  do,  mama?" 

"He  takes  care  of  his  property." 

"Sport  and  feudal  philanthropy,  I  suppose," 
Imogen  smiled. 

"Very  much  just  that,"  Mrs.  Upton  answered, 
pouring  out  her  daughter 's  tea. 

Jack,  who  almost  expected  to  see  Imogen's  brow 
darken  with  reprobation  for  the  type  of  existence 
so  described,  was  relieved,  and  at  the  same  time 
perturbed,  to  observe  that  the  humorous  kindliness 
of  her  manner  remained  unclouded.  No  doubt  she 
found  the  subject  too  trivial  and  too  remote  for 
gravity.  Jack  himself  had  a  general  idea  that 
serious  friendships  between  man  and  woman  were 
adapted  only  to  the  young  and  the  unmated.  After 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  123 

marriage,  according  to  this  conception,  the  sexes 
became,  even  in  social  intercourse,  monogamous,  and 
he  could  n't  feel  the  bond  between  Mrs.  Upton  and 
a  feudal  country  squire  as  a  matter  of  much  im 
portance.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Upton  had 
said  "friend"  with  decision,  and  though  the  word, 
for  her,  could  not  mean  what  it  meant  to  people  like 
himself  and  Imogen — a  grave,  a  beautiful  bond  of 
mutual  help,  mutual  endeavor,  mutual  rejoicing  in 
the  wonder  and  splendor  of  life — even  a  trivial  rela 
tionship  was  not  a  fit  subject  for  playful  patronage. 
It  was  with  sharp  disapprobation  that  he  heard 
Imogen  go  on  to  say,  "I  should  like  to  meet  a  man 
like  that — really  to  know.  One  imagines  that  they 
are  as  extinct  as  the  dodo,  and  suddenly,  if  one  goes 
to  England,  one  finds  them  swarming.  Happy,  deco 
rative,  empty  people;  perfectly  kind,  perfectly  con 
tented,  perfectly  useless.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  your 
Sir  Basil  a  bit,  mama  darling.  I  'm  quite  sure, 
since  you  like  him,  that  he  is  a  more  interesting 
variation  of  the  type.  Only  I  can't  help  wondering 
what  he  does  find  to  write  about. ' ' 

"I  think,  as  I  am  wondering  myself,  I  will  ask 
you  all  to  excuse  me  if  I  open  my  letter, ' '  said  Mrs. 
Upton,  and,  making  no  offer  of  satisfying  Imogen's 
curiosity,  she  unfolded  two  stout  sheets  of  paper  and 
proceeded  to  read  them. 

Imogen  did  not  lose  her  look  of  lightness,  but 
Jack  fancied  in  the  steadiness  of  the  gaze  that  she 
bent  upon  her  mother  a  controlled  anger. 

"One  may  be  useful,  Imogen,  without  wearing 
any  badge  of  usefulness,"  Mrs.  Wake  now  observed. 


124  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Her  bonnet,  as  usual,  on  one  side,  and  her  hair 
much  disarranged,  she  had  listened  to  the  colloquy 
in  silence. 

Imogen  was  always  very  sweet  with  Mrs.  Wake. 
She  had  the  air  of  a  full,  deep  river  benignly  willing 
to  receive  without  a  ripple  any  number  of  such 
tossed  pebbles,  to  engulf  and  flow  over  them.  She 
had  told  Jack  that  Mrs.  Wake's  dry  aggressiveness 
did  not  blind  her  for  a  moment  to  Mrs.  Wake's  noble 
qualities.  Mrs.  Wake  was  a  brave,  a  splendid  person, 
and  she  had  the  greatest  admiration  for  her;  but, 
beneath  these  appreciations,  a  complete  indifference 
as  to  Mrs.  Wake's  opinions  and  personality  showed 
always  in  her  demeanor  toward  her.  She  was  a 
splendid  person,  but  she  was  of  no  importance  to 
Imogen  whatever. 

"I  don't  think  that  one  can  be  useful  unless  one 
is  actively  helping  on  the  world's  work,  dear  Mrs. 
Wake,"  she  now  said.  "Mary,  we  have  tickets  for 
Carnegie  Hall  to-morrow  night;  won't  that  be  a 
treat?  I  long  for  a  deep  draft  of  music." 

"One  does  help  it  on,"  said  Mrs.  Wake,  skipping, 
as  it  were,  another  pebble,  "if  one  fills  one's  place 
in  life  and  does  one's  duty." 

Imogen  now  gave  her  a  more  undivided  attention. 
"Precisely.  And  one  must  grow  all  the  time  to  do 
that.  One's  place  in  life  is  a  growing  thing.  It 
does  n't  remain  fixed  and  changeless— as  English 
conservatism  usually  implies.  Are  you  a  friend  of 
Sir  Basil's,  too?" 

"I  met  him  while  I  was  with  your  mother,  and  I 
thought  it  a  pity  we  did  n't  produce  more  men  like 
him  over  here— simple,  unself conscious  men,  con- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  125 

tented  to  be  themselves  and  to  do  the  duty  that  is 
nearest  them." 

' '  Anglomaniac  ! ' '  Imogen  smiled,  sugaring  her 
second  cup  of  tea. 

Mrs.  Wake  flushed  slightly.  ''Because  I  see  the 
good  qualities  of  another  country  ? ' ' 

11  Because  you  see  its  defects  with  a  glamour  over 
them." 

"  Is  it  a  defect  to  do  well  by  instinct  what  we  have 
not  yet  learned  to  do  without  effort  ? ' ' 

"Ah,— but  the  danger  there  is—"  Jack  here  broke 
in,  much  interested,  "the  danger  there  is  that  you 
merge  the  individual  in  the  function.  When  func 
tion  becomes  instinctive  it  atrophies  unless  it  can 
grow  into  higher  forms  of  function.  Imogen  's 
right,  you  know. ' ' 

"In  a  sense,  no  doubt.  But  all  the  same  our  de 
fect  is  that  we  have  so  little  interest  except  as  indi 
viduals. " 

"What  more  interest  can  any  one  have  than 
that?" 

"In  older  civilizations  people  may  have  all  the 
accumulated  interest  of  the  deep  background,  the 
long  past,  that,  quite  unconsciously,  they  embody." 

"We  have  the  interest  of  the  future." 

"I  don't  think  so,  quite;  for  the  individual,  the 
future  does  n't  seem  to  count.  The  individual  is 
sacrificed  to  the  future,  but  the  past  is,  in  a  sense, 
sacrificed  for  the  individual ;  in  the  right  sort  it  's 
all  there — summed  up." 

Imogen  had  listened,  still  with  her  steady  smile, 
to  these  heresies  and  to  Jack's  over-lenient  dealing 
with  them.  She  picked  up  a  review,  turning  the 


126  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

pages  and  glancing  through  it  while  she  said,  ever 
so  lightly  and  gently : 

"I  think  that  you  would  find  most  aristocrats 
against  you  in  our  country,  dear  Mrs.  Wake.  With 
all  the  depth  of  our  background,  the  length  of  our 
past,  you  would  find,  in  Jack  and  Mary  and  me,  for 
instance,  that  it  's  our  sense  of  the  future,  of  our 
own  purposes  for  it,  that  makes  our  truest  reality. ' ' 

Jack  was  rather  pleased  with  this  apt  summing- 
up,  too  pleased,  in  his  masculine  ingenuousness,  to 
feel  that  for  Mrs.  Wake,  with  no  ancestry  at  all  to 
speak  of,  such  a  summing  could  not  be  very  grati 
fying.  He  did  n't  see  this  at  all  until  Mrs.  Upton, 
folding  her  letter,  came  into  the  slightly  awkward 
silence  that  followed  Imogen's  speech,  with  the  de 
cisiveness  that  had  subtly  animated  her  manner  since 
Imogen's  entrance.  She  remarked  that  the  past,  in 
that  sense  of  hereditary  tradition  handed  on  by  hered 
itary  power,  did  n  't  exist  at  all  in  America ;  it  was 
just  that  fact  that  made  America  so  different  and  so 
interesting ;  its  aristocrats  so  often  had  the  shallowest 
of  backgrounds.  And  in  her  gliding  to  a  change  of 
subject,  in  her  addressing  of  an  entirely  foreign 
question  to  Mrs.  Wake,  Jack  guessed  at  a  little  flare 
of  resentment  on  her  friend's  behalf. 

Imogen  kept  her  calm,  and  while  her  mother 
talked  to  Mrs.  Wake  she  talked  to  Mary ;  but  that  the 
calm  was  assumed  she  showed  him  presently  when 
they  were  left  alone.  She  then  showed  him,  indeed, 
that  she  was  frankly  angry. 

' '  One  does  n 't  mind  Mrs.  Wake, ' '  she  said ;  "it  's 
that  type  among  us,  the  type  without  background, 
without  traditions,  that  is  so  influenced  by  the  Euro- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  127 

pean  thing;  you  saw  the  little  sop  mama  threw  to 
her— she  an  aristocrat!— because  of  a  generation  of 
great  wealth;  that  could  be  her  only  claim;  but  to 
have  mama  so  dead  to  all  we  mean ! ' ' 

Jack,  rather  embarrassed  by  the  pressure  of  his 
enlightenments,  said  that  he  had  n't  felt  that;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  did  see  what  they  meant,  it 
was  their  future  that  counted,  in  the  main. 

"A  rootless  future,  according  to  her!" 

"Why,  we  have  our  past;  it  's  the  way  we  possess 
it  that  's  new  in  the  world ;  that  's  what  she  meant. 
Any  little  advantage  that  you  or  I  may  have  in  our 
half-dozen  or  so  generations  of  respectability  and 
responsibility,  is  ours  only  to  share,  to  make  us  tell 
more  in  the  general  uplifting, ' ' 

"You  think  that  you  need  say  that  to  me,  Jack! 
As  for  respectability,  that  homespun  word  hardly 
applies ;  we  do  have  lineage  here,  and  in  the  Euro 
pean  sense,  even  if  without  the  European  power. 
But  that  's  no  matter.  It  's  the  pressing  down  on 
me  of  this  alien  standard,  whether  expressed  or  not, 
that  stifles  me.  I  could  feel  mama's  hostility  in 
every  word,  every  glance. ' ' 

"Hardly  hostility,  Imogen.  Perhaps  a  touch  of 
vexation  on  Mrs.  Wake's  account.  You  did  n't  mean 
it,  of  course,  but  it  might  have  hurt,  what  you  said." 

"That!  That  was  a  mere  opportunity.  Did  n't 
you  feel  and  see  that  it  was  ? ' ' 

Jack's  aspect  now  took  on  its  air  of  serious  and 
reasonable  demonstration. 

"Well,  you  know,  Imogen,  you  were  a  little  tact 
less  about  her  friendship— about  this  Sir  Basil." 

He  expected  wonder  and  denial,  but,  on  the  con- 


128  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

trary,  after  going  to  the  window  and  looking  out 
silently  for  some  moments,  Imogen,  without  turning, 
said,  "It  's  not  a  friendship  I  care  about." 

"Why  not?"  Jack  asked,  taken  aback. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  Imogen  repeated. 

"Why  under  the  sun  should  you  dislike  it?  What 
do  you  know  about  it,  anyway  ? ' ' 

Imogen  still  gazed  from  the  window.  "Jack,  I 
don't  believe  that  mama  is  at  all  the  woman  to 
have  friends,  as  we  understand  the  word.  I  don't 
believe  that  it  is  simply  a  friendship.  Yes,  you  may 
well  look  surprised,  "—she  had  turned  to  him  now— 
"I  've  never  told  you.  It  seemed  unfair  to  her. 
But  again  and  again  I  've  caught  her  whispers,  hints, 
fibout  the  sentimental  attachments  mama  inspires. 
You  may  imagine  how  I  've  felt,  living  here  with 
him,  in  his  loneliness.  I  don't  say,  I  don't  believe, 
that  mama  was  ever  a  flirt;  she  is  too  dignified,  too 
distinguished  a  woman  for  that ;  but  the  fact  remains 
that  whispers  of  this  sort  do  attach  themselves  to 
her  name,  and  a  woman  is  always  to  blame,  in  some 
sense,  for  that. ' ' 

Jack,  looking  as  startled  as  she  had  hoped  he 
would,  gazed  now  with  frowning  intentness  on  the 
ground  and  made  no  reply. 

"As  for  this  Sir  Basil,"  Imogen  went  on,  "I  used 
to  wonder  if  he  were  another  of  these  triflers  with 
the  sanctity  of  love,  and  of  late  I  've  wondered  more. 
He  writes  to  her  constantly.  What  can  the  bond 
between  mama  and  a  man  of  that  type  be  unless 
it  's  a  sentimental  one?  And  did  n't  you  see  her 
blush  to-day?" 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  129 

Jack  now  raised  his  eyes  to  her  and  she  saw  that 
he,  at  all  events,  was  blushing.  "I  can't  bear  to 
hear  you  talk  like  this,  Imogen, ' '  he  said. 

Imogen's  own  cheeks  flamed  at  the  implied  re 
proach.  "Do  you  mean  that  I  must  lock  everything, 
everything  I  have  to  suffer,  into  my  own  heart? 
I  thought  that  to  you,  Jack,  I  could  say  anything. ' ' 

"Of  course,  of  course,  dear.  Only  don 't  think  in 
this  way." 

' '  I  accuse  her  of  nothing  but  accepting  this  sort  of 
homage. ' ' 

"I  know;  of  course, — only  not  even  to  me. 
They  are  friends.  We  have  no  right  to  spy  upon 
them ;  it  's  almost  as  if  you  had  laid  a  trap  for  her 
and  then  pointed  her  out  to  me  in  it.  Oh,  I  know 
that  you  did  n't  mean  it  so." 

' '  Spy  on  her !     I  only  wanted  to  know ! ' ' 

"But  your  tone  was,  well,  rather  offensively— 
humorous. ' ' 

"Can  you  feel  that  a  friendship  to  be  taken  seri 
ously  ?  The  very  kindest  thing  is  to  treat  it  lightly, 
humorously,  as  I  did.  She  ought  to  be  laughed  out 
of  tolerating  such  an  unbecoming  relationship.  A 
woman  of  her  age  ought  not  to  be  able  to  blush  like 
that." 

Looking  down  again,  still  with  his  deep  flush,  Jack 
said,  "Really,  Imogen,  I  think  that  you  take  too 
much  upon  yourself. ' ' 

Imogen  felt  her  cheeks  whiten.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
hard  on  his  downcast  face. 

"It  will  be  the  last  touch  to  all  I  have  to  bear, 
Jack,  if  mama  brings  a  misunderstanding  between 


130  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

you  and  me.  If  you  can  feel  it  fitting,  appropriate, 
that  a  widow  of  barely  four  months  should  en 
courage  the  infatuation  of  a  stupid  old  Englishman, 
then  I  have  no  more  to  say.  We  have  different  con 
ceptions  of  right  and  wrong,  that  is  all."  Imogen's 
lips  trembled  slightly  in  pronouncing  the  words. 

"I  should  agree  with  you  if  that  were  the  case, 
Imogen.  I  don't  believe  that  it  is." 

"Very  well.  Wait  and  see  if  it  is  n't  the  case," 
said  Imogen. 

It  was  Jack  who  broached  another  subject,  asking 
her  about  some  concerts  she  had  gone  to  recently; 
but,  turned  from  him  again  and  looking  out  into  the 
evening,  her  answers  were  so  vague  and  chill,  that 
presently,  casting  a  glance  half  mournful  and  half 
alarmed  upon  her,  he  bade  her  good-by  and  left  her. 

Imogen  stood  looking  out  unseeingly,  a  sense  of 
indignation  and  of  fear  weighing  upon  her.  Jack 
had  never  before  left  her  like  this.  But  she  could 
not  yield  to  the  impulse  to  call  out  to  him,  run  after 
him,  beg  him  not  to  go  with  a  misunderstanding 
unresolved  between  them,  for  she  was  right  and  he 
was  wrong.  She  had  told  him  to  wait  and  see  if  it 
was  n't  the  case,  what  she  had  said;  and  now  they 
must  wait.  She  believed  that  it  was  the  case,  and 
the  thought  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  personal  humil 
iation. 

Since  her  summing  up  of  the  situation  in  the 
library,  not  three  months  ago,  that  first  quiet  sense 
of  mastery  had  been  much  shaken,  and  now  for 
weeks  there  had  been  with  her  constantly  a  strange 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  131 

gliding  of  new  realizations.  This  one  seemed  the 
last  touch  to  her  mother's  wrongness— a  wrongness 
that  had  threatened  nothing,  had  crushed  down  on 
nothing,  and  that  yet  pervaded  more  and  more  the 
whole  of  life — that  she  should  bring  back  to  her  old 
deserted  home  not  a  touch  of  penitence  and  the  in 
cense  of  absurd  devotions.  Friends  of  that  sort, 
middle-aged,  dull  Englishmen,  did  n't,  Imogen  had 
wisely  surmised,  write  to  one  every  week.  It  was  n't 
as  if  they  had  uniting  interests  to  bind  them.  Even 
a  literary,  a  political,  a  philanthropic,  correspond 
ence  Imogen  would  have  felt  as  something  of  an  af 
front  to  her  father's  memory,  now,  at  this  time; 
such  links  with  the  life  that  had  always  been  a  sore 
upon  their  family  dignity  should  have  been  laid 
aside  while  the  official  mourning  lasted,  so  to  speak. 
But  Sir  Basil,  she  felt  sure,  had  no  mitigating  inter 
ests  to  write  about,  and  the  large,  square  envelope 
that  lay  so  often  on  the  hall-table  seemed  to  her  like 
a  pert,  placid  face  gazing  in  at  the  house  of  mourn 
ing.  To-day,  yes,  she  had  wanted  to  know,  to  see, 
and  suspicions  and  resentments  from  dim  had  be 
come  keen. 

And  now,  to  complete  it  all,  Jack  did  not  under 
stand.  Jack  thought  her  unfair,  unkind.  He  had 
left  her  with  that  unresolved  discord  between  them. 
A  sense  of  bereavement,  foreboding,  and  desolation 
filled  her  heart.  On  the  table  beside  her  stood  a  tall 
vase  of  lilies  that  he  had  sent  her,  and  as  she  stood, 
thinking  sad  and  bitter  thoughts,  she  passed  her 
hand  over  them  from  time  to  time,  bending  her  face 


132  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

to  them,  till,  suddenly,  the  tears  rose  and  fell  and, 
closing  her  eyes,  holding  the  flowers  against  her 
cheek,  she  began  to  cry. 

That  was  what  she  had  meant  to  be  like,  the  pure, 
sweet  aroma  of  these  flowers,  filling  all  the  lives 
about  her  with  a  spiritual  fragrance.  She  did  so 
want  to  be  good  and  lovely,  to  make  goodness  and 
loveliness  grow  about  her.  It  was  hard,  hard,  when 
that  was  what  she  wanted— all  that  she  wanted— to 
receive  these  buffets  from  loved  hands,  to  see  loved 
eyes  look  at  her  with  trouble  and  severity.  It  was 
nothing,  indeed,— it  was,  indeed,  only  to  be  expected, 
—that  her  mother  should  not  recognize  the  spiritual 
fragrance ;  that  Jack  should  be  so  insensible  to  it 
pierced  her.  And  feeling  herself  alone  in  a  blind 
and  hostile  world,  she  sobbed  and  sobbed,  finding 
a  sad  relief  in  tears.  She  was  able  to  think,  while 
she  wept,  that  though  it  was  a  relief  she  must  n't 
let  it  become  a  weakness;  must  n't  let  herself  slide 
into  the  danger  of  allowing  grief  and  desolation  to 
blur  outlines  for  her.  That  others  were  blind 
must  n't  blind  her;  that  others  did  not  see  her  as 
good  and  lovely  must  not  make  her,  with  cowardly 
complaisance,  forswear  her  own  clear  consciousness 
of  right.  She  was  thinking  this,  and  her  sobs  were 
becoming  a  little  quieter,  when  her  mother,  now  in 
her  evening  tea-gown,  came  back  into  the  room. 

Imogen  was  not  displeased  that  her  grief  should 
have  this  particular  witness.  Besides  all  the  deep, 
unspoken  wrongs,  her  mother  must  be  conscious  of 
^mnller  wrongs  asainst  her  this  afternoon,  must 
know  that  she  had— well— tried  to  put  her,  as  it  were, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  133 

in  her  place,  first  about  the  letter  and  then  about 
Mrs.  Wake's  lack  of  aristocratic  instinct.  She  must 
know  this  and  must  know  that  Imogen  knew  it. 
These  were  trivial  matters,  not  to  be  recognized  be 
tween  them;  and  how  completely  indifferent  they 
were  to  her  her  present  grief  would  demonstrate. 
Such  tears  fell  only  for  great  sorrows.  Holding  the 
flowers  to  her  cheek,  she  wept  on,  turning  her  face 
away.  She  knew  that  her  mother  had  paused, 
startled,  at  a  loss;  and,  gravely,  without  one  word, 
she  intended,  in  a  moment,  unless  her  mother  should 
think  it  becoming  to  withdraw,  to  leave  the  room, 
still  weeping.  But  she  had  not  time  to  carry  this 
resolution  into  effect.  Suddenly,  and  much  to  her 
dismay,  she  felt  her  mother's  arms  around  her, 
while  her  mother's  voice,  alarmed,  tender,  tearful, 
came  to  her :  ' '  Poor  darling,  my  poor  darling,  what 
is  it?  Please  tell  me. " 

Physical  demonstrations  were  never  pleasing  to 
Imogen,  who,  indeed,  disliked  being  touched ;  and  now, 
though  she  submitted  to  having  her  head  drawn  down 
to  her  mother's  shoulder,  she  could  not  feel  that  the 
physical  contact  in  any  way  bridged  the  chasm  be 
tween  them.  She  felt,  presently,  from  her  mother's 
inarticulate  murmurs  of  compunction  and  pity,  that 
this  was,  apparently,  what  she  had  hoped  for.  It 
was  evidently  with  difficulty,  before  her  child's  un 
responsive  silence,  that  she  found  words. 

"Is  it  anything  that  I  've  done?"  she  questioned. 
"Have  I  seemed  cross  this  afternoon?  I  was  a 
little  cross,  I  know.  Do  forgive  me,  dear." 

Enveloped  as  she  was  in  her  mother's  arms,  so 


134  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

near  that  she  could  feel  the  warmth  and  smoothness 
of  her  shoulder  througL.  the  fine  texture  of  her  gown, 
so  near  that  a  fresh  fragrance,  like  that  from  a  bank 
of  violets,  seemed  to  breathe  upon  her,  Imogen  found 
it  a  little  difficult  to  control  the  discomfort  that  the 
contact  aroused  in  her.  "Of  course  I  forgive  you, 
dear  mama,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  had  regained 
its  composure.  "But,  oh  no!— it  was  not  at  all 
for  that— I  hardly  noticed  it.  It  's  nothing  that  you 
can  help,  dear. ' ' 

"But  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  cry  and  not  know 
what  's  the  matter. ' ' 

"Your  knowing  would  n't  help  me,  would  it?" 
said  Imogen,  with  a  faint  smile,  lifting  her  hand  to 
press  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"No,  of  course  not;  but  it  would  help  me— for  my 
sake,  then. ' ' 

"Then,  if  it  helps  you,  it  was  papa  I  was  thinking 
of.  I  miss  him  so."  And  with  the  words,  that 
placed  before  her  suddenly  a  picture  of  her  own 
desolation,  a  great  sob  again  shook  her.  "I  'm  so 
lonely  now,  so  lonely."  Her  mother  held  her,  not 
speaking,  though  Imogen  now  felt  that  she,  too, 
wept,  and  a  greater  bitterness  rose  in  her  at  the 
thought  that  it  was  not  for  her  dead  father  that  the 
tears  fell  but  in  pure  weak  sympathy  and  helpless 
ness.  She,  herself,  was  the  only  lonely  one.  She 
alone,  remembered.  She  alone  longed  for  him.  In 
this  sharpened  realization  of  her  own  sorrow  she  for 
got  that  it  had  not  been  the  actual  cause  of  her  grief. 

"Poor  darling;  poor  child,"  her  mother  said  at 
last.  "Imogen,  I  know  that  I  've  failed,  in  so  much. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  135 

But  I  want  so  to  make  up  for  things,  if  I  can ;  to  be 
near  you ;  to  fill  the  loneliness  a  little ;  to  have  you 
love  me,  too,  with  time." 

"Love  you,  my  dear  mother?  Why,  I  am  full  of 
love  for  you.  Have  n't  you  felt  that?"  Imogen 
drew  herself  away  to  look  her  grieved  wonder  into 
her  mother's  eyes.  "Oh,  mama,  how  little  you 
know  me ! ' ' 

Valerie,  flushed,  the  tears  on  her  cheeks,  oddly 
shaken  from  her  usual  serenity,  still  clasped  her 
daughter's  hands  and  still  spoke  on.  "I  know,  I 
know,— but  it  's  not  in  the  way  it  ought  to  be.  It  's 
not  your  fault,  Imogen;  it  's  mine;  it  must  be  the 
mother's  fault  if  she  can't  make  herself  needed. 
Only  you  can't  know  how  it  all  began,  from  so  far 
back— that  sense  that  you  did  n't  need  me.  But  I 
shirked;  I  know  that  I  shirked.  Things  seemed  too 
hard  for  me — I  did  n't  know  how  to  bear  them. 
Perhaps  you  might  have  come  almost  to  hate  me,  if 
I  had  stayed,  as  things  were.  I  'm  not  making  any 
appeal.  I  'm  not  trying  to  force  anything.  But  I 
so  want  you  to  know  how  I  long  to  have  my  chance— 
to  begin  all  over  again.  I  so  want  you  to  help. ' ' 

Imogen,  troubled  and  confused  by  her  mother's 
soft  yet  almost  passionate  eagerness,  that  seemed  to 
pull  her  down  to  some  childish,  inferior  place,  just 
as  her  mother's  arms  had  drawn  down  her  head  to 
an  attitude  incongruous  with  its  own  benignant  lofti 
ness,  had  yet  been  able,  while  she  spoke,  to  gather 
her  thoughts  into  a  keen,  moral  concentration  upon 
her  actual  words.  She  was  accustomed,  in  moments 
of  moral  stress,  to  a  quick  lifting  of  her  heart  and 


136  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

mind  for  help  and  insight  toward  the  highest  that 
she  knew,  and  she  felt  herself  pray  now,  "Help  me 
to  be  true,  to  her,  for  her."  The  prayer  seemed  to 
raise  her  from  some  threatened  abasement,  and  from 
her  regained  height  she  spoke  with  a  sense  of  assured 
revelation.  "We  can't  have  things  by  merely  want 
ing  them.  To  gain  anything  wye  must  work  for  it. 
You  left  us.  We  did  n't  shut  you  out.  You  were 
different. — You  are  different." 

But  her  mother's  vehemence  was  still  too  great  to 
be  thrown  back  by  salutary  truths. 

"Yes;  that  's  just  it;  we  were  different.  It  was 
that  that  seemed  to  shut  me  out.  You  were  with  him 
— against  me.  And  I  'm  not  asking  for  any  change 
in  you;  I  don't  think  that  I  expect  any  change  in 
myself,  — I  am  not  asking  for  any  place  in  your  heart 
that  is  his,  dear  child;  I  know  that  that  can't  be, 
should  not  be.  But  people  can  be  different,  and  yet 
near.  They  can  be  different  and  yet  love  each  other 
very  much.  That  's  all  I  want— that  you  should  see 
how  I  care  for  you  and  trust  me. ' ' 

"I  do  trust  you,  darling  mama.  I  do  see  that 
you  are  warm-hearted,  full  of  kind  impulses.  But 
I  think  that  your  life  is  confused,  uncertain  of  any 
goal.  If  you  are  to  be  near  me  in  the  way  you  crave, 
you  must  change.  And  we  can,  dear,  with  faith  and 
effort.  When  you  have  found  yourself,  found  a 
goal,  I  shall  feel  you  near." 

"Ah,  but  don't  be  so  over-logical,  dear  child. 
You  're  my  goal ! ' '  Valerie  smiled  and  appealed  at 
once. 

Imogen,   though  smiling  gravely  too,   shook  her 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  137 

head.  "I  'm  afraid  that  I  'm  only  your  last  toy, 
mama  darling.  You  have  come  over  here  to  see 
if  you  can  make  me  happy,  just  as  if  you  were  re 
furnishing  a  house.  But,  you  see,  my  happiness 
does  n't  depend  on  you." 

"You  are  hard  on  me,  Imogen." 

"No;  no;  I  mean  to  be  so  gentle.  It  's  such  a 
dangerous  view  of  life — that  centering  it  on  some 
one  else,  making  them  an  end.  I  feel  so  differently 
about  life.  I  think  that  our  love  for  others  is  only 
sound  and  true  when  it  helps  them  to  power  of  ser 
vice  to  some  shared  ideal.  Your  love  for  me  is  n't 
like  that.  It  's  only  an  instinctive  craving.  For 
give  me  if  I  seem  ruthless.  I  only  want  to  help  you 
to  see  clearly,  dear. ' ' 

Valerie,  still  holding  her  daughter's  hands,  looked 
away  from  her  and  around  the  room  with  a  glance 
at  once  vague  and  a  little  wild. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,"  she  mur 
mured.  "You  make  all  that  I  mean  wither."  She 
was  sad ;  her  ardor  had  dropped  from  her.  She  was 
not  at  all  convicted  of  error ;  indeed,  she  was  trying, 
so  it  seemed,  to  convict  her,  Imogen,  of  one. 

Imogen  felt  a  cold  resistance  rising  within  her  to 
meet  this  misinterpretation.  "On  the  contrary, 
clear,"  she  said,  "it  is  just  the  poetry,  the  reality  of 
life,  in  all  its  stern  glory,— because  it  is  and  must  be 
stern  if  it  is  to  be  spiritual, — it  is  just  that,  it  seems 
to  me,  that  you  are  trying  to  reduce  to  a  sort  of 
pretty,  facile  lyric. ' ' 

Valerie  still  held  the  girl's  hands  very  tightly,  as 
though  grasping  hard  some  dying  hope.  And  look- 


138  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ing  down  upon  the  ground  she  stood  silent  for  some 
moments.  Presently  she  said,  not  raising  her  eyes, 
"I  have  won  no  right,  I  suppose,  to  be  seen  more 
significantly  by  you.  Only,  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  I  don 't  see  myself  like  that. ' ' 

Again  Imogen  felt  the  unpleasant  sensation  of 
being  made  to  seem  young  and  inexperienced.  Her 
mother's  very  quiet  before  exhortation;  her  sad  re 
lapse  into  grave  kindliness,  a  kindliness,  too,  not 
without  its  touch  of  severity,  showed  that  she  pos 
sessed,  or  thought  that  she  possessed,  some  inner 
assurance  for  which  Imogen  could  find  no  ground. 
In  answering  her  she  grasped  at  all  her  own. 

"I  'm  very  sure  you  don't,"  she  said,  "for  I  don't 
for  one  moment  misjudge  your  sincerity.  And  what 
I  want  you  to  believe,  my  dear  mother,  is  that  I  long 
for  the  time  when  any  strength  and  insight  I  may 
have  gained  through  my  long  fight,  by  his  side,  may 
be  of  use  to  you.  Trust  your  own  best  vision  of 
yourself  and  it  will  some  day  realize  itself.  I  will 
trust  it  too,  indeed,  indeed,  I  will.  We  must  grow 
if  we  keep  a  vision." 

Mrs.  Upton  now  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  swiftly 
but  deeply  at  her  daughter.  It  was  a  look  that  left 
many  hopes  behind  it.  It  was  a  look  that  armed 
other,  and  quite  selfless,  hopes,  with  its  grave  and 
watchful  understanding.  The  understanding  would 
not  have  been  so  clear  had  it  not  been  fed  by  all  the 
springs  of  baffled  tenderness  that  only  so  could  find 
their  uses.  Giving  her  daughter's  hands  a  final 
shake,  as  if  over  some  compact,  perhaps  over  that  of 
growth,  she  turned  away.  Tison,  who  had  followed 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  139 

her  into  the  room  and  had  stood  for  long  looking  up 
at  the  colloquy  that  ignored  him,  jumped  against  her 
dress  and  she  stooped  and  picked  him  up,  pressing 
her  cheek  against  his  silken  side. 

"You  had  better  dress  now,  Imogen,"  she  said,  in 
tones  of  astonishing  commonplace.  "You  've  only 
time.  I  've  kept  you  so  long."  And  holding  Tison 
against  her  cheek  she  went  to  the  window. 


XI 


ME  tableaux  were  not  to  come  off  until 
the  end  of  April,  and  Jack,  having  set 
things  in  motion,  was  in  Boston  at  the 
beginning  of  the  month.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  Mrs.  Upton,  too,  was  in 
Boston,  with  her  old  friend  and  his  great-aunt,  and 
it  was  at  this  time  that  he  came,  as  he  phrased  it  to 
himself,  really  into  touch  with  her. 

Jack's  aunt  lived  in  a  spacious,  peaceful  house  on 
the  hill,  and  the  windows  of  Jack's  large  flat,  near  by, 
looked  over  the  Common,  the  Gardens,  the  Charles 
River,  a  cheerful,  bird  's-eye  view  of  the  tranquil  city, 
breathed  upon  now  by  the  first,  faint  green  of  spring. 
Jack  was  pleased  that  Mrs.  Upton  and  his  aunt— 
a  mild,  blanched  old  lady  with  silvery  side-curls 
under  the  arch  of  an  old-fashioned  bonnet — should 
often  come  to  tea  with  him,  for  in  the  arrangement 
of  his  rooms— that  looked  so  unarranged— he  felt 
sure  that  she  must  recognize  a  taste  as  fine  and 
fastidious  as  her  own.  He  suspected  Mrs.  Upton  of 
finding  him  merely  ethical  and  he  was  eager  that 
she  should  see  that  his  grasp  on  life  was  larger  than 
she  might  imagine.  His  taste  was  fine  and  fastid 
ious  ;  it  was  also  disciplined  and  gracefully  vagrant ; 
she  must  see  that  in  the  few  but  perfect  pictures  and 

no 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  141 

mezzotints  on  his  walls;  the  collection  of  old  white 
Chinese  porcelain  standing  about  the  room  on  black 
carved  stands;  in  his  wonderful  black  lacquer  cabi 
nets  and  in  all  the  charming  medley  of  the  rare 
and  the  appropriate. 

Certainly,  whatever  was  Mrs.  Upton's  impres 
sion  of  him,  she  frequently  expressed  herself  as 
delighted  with  his  rooms,  and  as  they  sat  in  the 
deep  window-seat,  which  commanded  the  view  of 
the  city,  he  felt  more  and  more  sure  that  what 
ever  that  impression  of  him  might  be,  it  rested 
upon  an  essential  liking.  It  was  pleasant  to  Jack  to 
feel  sure  of  this,  little  as  he  might  be  able  to  justify 
to  himself  his  gratification.  Somehow,  with  Mrs. 
Upton,  he  did  n't  find  himself  occupied  with  justi 
fying  things.  The  ease  that  she  had  always  made 
for  him  shone  out,  now,  uninterruptedly,  and  as 
they  talked,  while  the  dear  old  aunt  sat  near,  turn 
ing  the  leaves  of  a  book,  joining  in  with  a  word  now 
and  then,  it  was,  in  the  main,  the  soft,  sweet  sense  of 
ease,  like  the  breath  of  violets  in  the  air,  that  sur 
rounded  him.  They  talked  of  all  sorts  of  things,  or 
rather,  as  he  said  to  himself,  they  babbled,  for  real 
talk  could  hardly  be  so  discursive,  so  aimless,  so 
merely  merry.  She  made  him  think  of  a  child  play 
ing  with  a  lapf ul  of  flowers ;  that  was  what  her  talk 
was  like.  She  would  spread  them  out  in  formal 
rows,  arrange  them  in  pretty,  intricate  posies,  or, 
suddenly,  gather  them  into  generous  handf  uls  which 
she  gave  you  with  a  pleased  glance  and  laugh.  It 
was  queer  to  find  a  person  who  took  all  "talk"  so 
lightly  and  who  yet,  he  felt  quite  sure,  took  some 


142  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

things  hard.  It  was  like  the  contrast  between  her 
indolent  face  and  her  clear,  unbiased  gaze,  that 
would  not  flinch  or  deceive  itself  from  or  about  any 
thing  that  it  met.  Apparently  most  of  the  things  that 
it  met  she  did  n't  take  solemnly.  The  world,  as  far 
as  he  could  guess,  was  for  her  mainly  made  up  of 
rather  trivial  things,  whether  hours  or  people ;  but, 
with  his  new  sense  of  enlightenment,  he  more  and 
more  came  to  realize  that  it  might  be  so  made  up 
and  yet,  to  her  apprehension,  be  very  bad,  very  sad, 
and  very  worth  while  too.  And  after  seeing  her  as 
a  child  playing  with  flowers  he  could  imagine  her  in 
some  suddenly  heroic  role — as  one  of  the  softly 
nurtured  women  of  the  French  Revolution,  for  in 
stance,  a  creature  made  up  of  little  gaieties,  little 
griefs;  of  sprigged  silk  and  gossamer,  powder  and 
patches ;  blossoming,  among  the  horrors  of  a  hopeless 
prison,  into  courageous  graces.  She  would  smile, 
talk,  play  cards  with  them,  those  doomed  ones,  she 
herself  doomed;  she  would  make  life's  last  day 
livable,  in  every  exquisite  sense  of  the  word.  And 
he  could  see  her  in  the  tumbril,  her  arm  round  a 
terrified  girl;  he  could  see  her  mounting  the  steps 
of  the  guillotine,  perhaps  with  no  upward  glance  to 
heaven,  but  with  a  composure  as  resolute  and  as 
serene  as  any  saint's. 

These  were  strange  visions  to  cross  his  mind  as 
they  sat  and  talked,  while  she  made  posies  for  him, 
and  even  when  they  did  not  hover  he  often  found 
himself  dwelling  with  a  sort  of  touched  tenderness 
upon  something  vaguely  pathetic  in  her.  Perhaps 
it  was  only  that  he  found  it  pathetic  to  see  her  look 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  143 

so  young  when,  measured  beside  his  own  contrasted 
youth,  he  felt  how  old  she  was.  It  was  pathetic  that 
eyes  so  clear  should  fade,  that  a  cheek  so  rounded 
should  wither,  that  the  bloom  and  softness  and 
freshness  that  her  whole  being  expressed  should  be 
evanescent.  Jack  was  not  given  to  such  meditations, 
having  a  robust,  transcendental  indifference  to 
earthly  gauds  unless  he  could  fit  them  into  ethical 
significances.  It  was,  indeed,  no  beauty  such  as 
Imogen's  that  he  felt  in  Mrs.  Upton.  He  was  not 
consciously  aware  that  her  loveliness  was  of  a  subtler, 
finer  quality  than  her  daughter's.  She  did  not  re 
mind  him  of  a  Madonna  nor  of  anything  to  do  with 
a  temple.  But  the  very  fact  that  he  could  n't  tabu 
late  and  pigeon-hole  her  with  some  uplifting  analogy 
made  her  appeal  the  most  direct  that  he  had  ever 
experienced.  The  dimness  of  her  lashes ;  the  Japan 
ese-like  oddity  of  her  smile ;  the  very  way  in  which 
her  hair  turned  up  from  her  neck  with  an  eddy  of 
escaping  tendrils, — these  things  pervaded  his  con 
sciousness.  He  did  n't  like  to  think  of  her  being 
hurt  and  unhappy,  and  he  often  wondered  if  she 
was  n  't  bound  to  be  both.  He  wondered  about  her  a 
great  deal.  He  received,  on  every  day  they  met, 
hints  and  illuminations,  but  never  the  clear  reveal- 
ment  that  he  hoped  for.  The  thing  that  grew  surer 
and  surer  for  him  was  her  essential  liking,  and  the 
thing  that  became  sweeter  and  sweeter,  though  the 
old  perplexity  mingled  with  it,  was  the  superficial 
amusement  he  caused  her.  One  of  the  things  that, 
he  began  to  see,  amused  her  a  little  was  the  cathol 
icity  of  taste  displayed  in  the  books  scattered  about 


144  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

his  rooms,  the  volumes  of  French  and  Italian  that 
the  great-aunt  would  take  up  while  they  talked. 
They  were  books  that  she  felt,  he  was  quite  sure,  as 
funnily  incongruous  with  his  whole  significance,  and 
that  their  presence  there  meant  none  of  the  things 
that  in  another  environment  they  would  have  stood 
for ;  neither  cosmopolitanism  nor  an  unbiased  con- 
noisseurship  interested  in  all  the  flowers— du  mal 
among  the  rest — of  the  human  intelligence.  That 
they  meant  for  him  his  own  omniscient  appreciation, 
unshakenly  sure  of  the  ethical  category  into  which 
he  could  place  each  fruit,  however  ominous  its 
tainted  ripeness;  each  flower,  however  freaked  with 
perverse  tints,  left  her  mildly  skeptical;  so  that  he 
felt,  with  just  a  flicker  of  his  old  irritation,  that  the 
very  pl-enti fulness  of  esthetic  corruption  that  he 
could  display  to  her  testified  for  her  to  his  essential 
gxiilelessness,  and,  perhaps,  to  a  blandness  and  nar 
rowness  of  nature  that  lacked  even  the  capacity  for 
infection.  Jack  had  to  own  to  himself  that,  though 
he  strove  to  make  it  rigorously  esthetic,  his  seeing  of 
d'Annunzio— to  take  at  random  one  of  the  fleurs  du 
mal — was  as  a  shining,  a  luridly  splendid  warning 
of  what  happened  to  decadent  people  in  unpleasant 
Latin  countries.  Such  lurid  splendor  was  as  far 
from  him  as  the  horrors  of  the  Orestean  Trilogy.  In 
Mrs.  Upton's  eyes  this  distance,  though  a  distinct 
advantage  for  him,  was  the  result  of  no  choice  or 
conflict,  but  of  environment  merely,  and  she  prob 
ably  thought  that  the  problems  of  Nietzschean  ethics 
were  not  to  be  solved  and  disposed  of  by  people 
whom  they  could  never  touch.  But  all  the  same,  and 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  145 

it  was  here  that  the  atoning  softness  came  in,  he  felt 
that  she  liked  him  the  better  for  being  able  to  see  a 
fleur  du  mal  only  as  if  it  were  a  weird  pressed 
product  under  a  glass  case.  And  if  he  amused  her 
it  was  not  because  of  any  sense  of  superior  wisdom ; 
she  did  n't  deny  her  consciousness  of  wider  con 
trasts,  but  she  made  no  claim  at  all  for  deeper  in 
sight; — the  very  way  in  which  she  talked  over  the 
sinister  people  with  him  showed  that,— asking  him 
his  opinion  about  this  or  that  and  opening  a  volume 
here  and  there  to  read  out  in  her  exquisite  French 
or  Italian  some  passage  whose  full  beauty  he  had 
never  before  so  realized.  Any  criticism  or  comment 
that  she  offered  was,  evidently,  of  the  slightest  weight 
in  her  own  estimation ;  but,  there  again  one  must  re 
member,  so  many  things  seemed  light  to  Mrs.  Upton, 
so  light,  indeed,  that  he  had  often  with  her  a  sense 
of  pressures  removed  and  an  easier  world  altogether. 

"The  trouble  with  him— with  all  his  cleverness 
and  beauty— is  that  his  picture  is  n't  true,"  Mrs. 
Upton  said  of  d'Annunzio,  standing  with  a  volume 
in  her  hand  in  the  clear  afternoon  light 

"True  to  him,"  Jack  amended,  alert  for  the  dis- 
playal  of  his  own  comprehension. 

"I  can't  think  it.  Life  is  always,  for  everybody, 
so  much  more  commonplace  than  he  dares  make  it. 
He  is  afraid  of  the  commonplace ;  he  won 't  face  it ; 
and  the  revenge  life  takes  on  people  who  do  that, 
people  who  are  really  afraid,  people  who  attitudinize, 
is  to  infect  them  in  some  subtle,  mocking  way  with 
the  very  thing  they  are  trying  to  escape." 

"Well,  but  he  is  n't  commonplace." 
10 


146  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"  No ;  worse ;  he  's  silly. ' '  She  had  put  down  the 
book  and  taken  up  another,  an  older  one.  ' '  Clough,— 
how  far  one  must  travel  from  d  'Annunzio  to  come  to 
him. 

'  It  fortifies  my  eoul  to  know 
That  though  I  perish,  Truth  is  so.'  " 

She  meditated  the  Stoic  flavor. 

"The  last  word  of  heroism,  of  faith,"  Jack  said, 
thinking  of  the  tumbril.  But  Valerie  turned  the  leaf 
a  little  petulantly.  ' '  Heroism  ?  Why  ? ' ' 

"Why, "—as  usual  he  was  glad  to  show  her  that, 
if  she  really  wanted  to  see  clearly,  he-  could'  show 
her  where  clearness,  of  the  best  sort,  lay, — "why, 
the  man  who  can  say  that  is  free.  He  has  abdicated 
every  selfish  claim  to  the  Highest. ' ' 

"Highest?  Why  should  it  fortify  my  soul  to 
know  that  truth  is  'so'  if  'so'  happens  to  be  some 
man-devouring  dragon  of  a  world-power?" 

"Clough  assumed,  of  course,  that  the  truth  was 
high— as  it  might  be,  even  if  it  devoured  one." 

"I  've  no  use  for  a  truth  that  would  have  no  better 
use  for  me,"  smiled  Valerie,  and  on  this  he  tried 
to  draw  her  on,  from  her  rejection  of  such 
heroism,  to  some  exposal  of  her  own  conception  of 
truth,  her  own  opinions  about  life,  a  venture  in 
which  he  always  failed.  Not  that  she  purposely 
eluded.  She  listened,  grave,  interested,  but,  when 
the  time  came  for  her  to  make  her  contribution,  fin 
gering  about,  metaphorically,  in  a  purse,  which, 
though  not  at  all  empty,  contained,  apparently,  a 
confused  medley  of  coinage.  If  she  could  have 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  147 

found  the  right  coin,  she  would  have  tendered  it 
gladly ;  but  she  seemed  to  consider  a  vague  chink  as 
all  that  could  be  really  desired  of  her,  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  he  knew  that  he  had  lost  nothing  of 
any  value. 

SOMETIMES  he  and  Mrs.  Upton,  Tison  trotting  at 
their  heels,  took  walks  together,  passing  down  the 
steep  old  streets,  austere  and  cheerful,  to  the  gar 
dens  and  along  the  wide  avenue  with  its  lines  of 
trees  and  broad  strip  of  turf,  on  and  out  to  the 
bridge  that  spanned  the  river.  They  enjoyed  to 
gether  the  view  of  the  pale  expanse  of  water,  placidly 
flowing  in  the  windless  sunshine,  and,  when  they 
turned  to  come  back,  their  favorite  aspect  of  the 
town.  They  could  see  it,  then,  silhouetted  in  the 
vague  grays  and  reds  of  its  old  houses,  climbing 
from  the  purplish  maze  of  tree-tops  in  the  Common, 
climbing  with  a  soft,  jostling  irregularity,  to  where 
the  dim  gold  bubble  of  the  State  House  dome 
rounded  on  the  sky.  It  almost  made  one  think,  so 
silhouetted,  of  a  Diirer  etching. 

"Dear  place,"  Mrs.  Upton  would  sigh  restfully, 
and  that  she  was  resting  in  all  her  stay  here,  resting 
from  the  demands,  the  adjustments,  of  her  new  life, 
he  was  acutely  aware.  Resting  from  Imogen.  Yes, 
why  should  n't  he  very  simply  face  that  fact?  He, 
too,  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  Imogen  had  rather 
tired  him  and  that  he  was  glad  of  this  interlude 
before  taking  up  again  the  unresolved  discord  where 
they  had  left  it.  Imogen's  last  word  about  her 
mother  had  been  that  very  ominous  "Wait  and 


148  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

see, ' '  and  Jack  felt  that  the  discord  had  grown  more 
complicated  from  the  fact  that,  quite  without  wait 
ing,  he  saw  a  great  deal  that  Imogen,  apparently, 
did  not.  He  had  seen  so  much  that  he  was  willing 
to  wait  for  whatever  else  he  was  to  see  with  very 
little  perturbation  of  mind,  and  that,  in  the  mean 
while,  as  many  Sir  Basils  as  it  pleased  Mrs.  Upton 
to  have  write  to  her  should  do  so. 

But  Mrs.  Upton  talked  a  great  deal  about  Imogen, 
so  much  that  he  came  to  suspect  her  of  adjusting  the 
conversation  to  some  supposed  craving  in  himself. 
She  had  never  asked  a  question  about  his  relations 
with  her  daughter,  accepting  merely  with  interest 
any  signs  they  might  choose  to  give  her,  but  insinu 
ating  no  hint  of  an  appeal  for  more  than  they  might 
choose  to  give.  She  probably  took  for  granted  what 
was  the  truth  of  the  situation,  that  it  rested  with 
Imogen  to  make  it  a  definite  one.  She  did  not  treat 
him  as  an  accepted  lover,  nor  yet  as  a  rejected  one ; 
she  discriminated  with  the  nicest  delicacy.  What  she 
allowed  herself  to  see,  the  ground  she  went  upon, 
was  his  deep  interest,  his  deep  attachment.  In  that 
light  he  was  admitted  by  degrees  to  an  intimacy 
that  he  knew  he  could  hardly  have  won  so  soon  on 
his  own  merits.  She  had  observed  him;  she  had 
thought  him  over;  she  liked  him  for  himself;  but, 
far  more  than  this,  she  liked  him  for  Imogen.  He 
often  guessed,  from  a  word  or  look,  at  a  deep  core  of 
feeling  in  her  where  her  repressed,  unemphatic,  yet 
vigilant,  maternity  burned  steadily.  From  her 
growing  fondness  for  him  he  could  gage  how  fond 
she  must  be  of  Imogen.  The  nearness  that  this  made 
for  them  was  wholly  delightful  to  Jack,  were  it  not 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  149 

embittered  by  the  familiar  sense,  sharper  than  ever 
now,  of  self-questioning  and  restlessness.  A  year 
ago,  six  months  ago— no,  three  months  only,  just 
before  her  own  coming — how  exquisitely  such  sym 
pathy,  such  understanding  would  have  fitted  into  all 
his  needs.  He  could  have  talked  to  her,  then,  by 
the  hour,  frankly,  freely,  joyously,  about  Imogen. 
And  the  restlessness  now  was  to  feel  that  it  was  just 
because  of  her  coming,  because  of  the  soft  clear  light 
that  she  had  so  unconsciously,  so  revealingly,  dif 
fused,  that  things  had,  in  some  odd  way,  taken  on  a 
new  color,  so  that  the  whole  world,  so  that  Imogen 
especially,  looked  different,  so  that  he  could  n't  any 
longer  be  frank,  altogether.  It  would  have  been  part 
of  the  joy,  three  months  ago,  to  talk  over  his  loving 
perception  of  Imogen's  little  foibles  and  childish 
nesses,  to  laugh,  with  a  loving  listener,  over  her  little 
complacencies  and  pomposities.  He  had  taken  them 
as  lightly  as  that,  then.  They  had  really  counted 
for  nothing.  Now  they  had  come  to  count  for  so 
much,  and  all  because  of  that  clear,  soft  light,  that 
he  really  could  n't  laugh  at  them.  He  could  n't 
laugh  at  them,  and  since  he  could  n't  do  that  he 
must  keep  silence  over  them,  and  as  a  result  the  talks 
about  Imogen  with  Imogen's  mother  were,  for  his 
consciousness,  a  little  random  and  at  sea.  Imogen's 
mother  confidently  based  their  community  on  a 
shared  vision,  and  that  he  kept  back  his  real  im 
pression  of  what  he  saw  was  made  all  the  worse  by 
his  intuition  that  she,  too,  kept  back  hers,  that  she 
talked  from  his  supposed  point  of  view,  as  it  were, 
and  did  n't  give  him  a  glimmer  of  her  own.  She 
loved  Imogen,  or,  perhaps,  rather,  she  loved  her 


150  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

daughter ;  but  what  did  she  think  of  Imogen  ?  That 
was  the  question  that  had  grown  so  sharp. 

ON  the  day  before  he  and  Mrs.  Upton  went  back  to 
gether  to  New  York,  Jack  gave  a  little  tea  that  was 
almost  a  family  affair.  Cambridge  had  been  one  of 
their  expeditions,  in  Rose  Packer's  motor-car,  and 
there  Eddy  Upton  had  given  them  tea  in  his  room 
overlooking  the  elms  of  the  "Yard"  at  Harvard. 
Jack's  tea  was  in  some  sort  a  return,  for  Eddy  and 
Rose  both  were  there  and  that  Rose,  in  Eddy's  eyes, 
did  n't  count  as  an  outsider  was  now  an  accepted 
fact. 

Eddy  had  taken  the  sudden  revelation  of  his 
poverty  with  great  coolness,  and  Jack  admired  the 
grim  resolution  with  which  he  had  cut  down  ex 
penses  while  relaxing  in  no  whit  his  hold  on  the 
nonchalant  beauty.  Poverty  would,  to  a  certain  ex 
tent,  bar  him  out  from  Rose's  sumptuous  world,  and 
Rose  did  not  seem  to  take  him  very  seriously  as  a 
suitor;  but  it  was  evident  that  Eddy  did  not  intend 
to  remain  poor  any  longer  than  he  could  possibly 
help  it  and  evident,  too,  that  his  assurance  in  regard 
to  sentimental  ambitions  had  its  attractions  for  her. 
They  chaffed  and  sparred  with  each  other  and  under 
the  flippant  duel  there  flashed  now  and  then  the 
encounters  of  a  real  one.  Rose  denied  the  possession 
of  a  heart,  but  Eddy's  wary  steel  might  strike  one 
day  to  a  defenceless  tenderness.  She  liked  him, 
among  many  others,  very  much.  And  she  was,  as 
she  frequently  declared,  in  love  with  his  mother. 
Jack  never  took  Rose  seriously ;  she  remained  for 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  151 

him  a  pretty,  trivial,  malicious  child ;  but  to-day  he 
was  pleased  by  the  evidences  of  her  devotion. 

The  little  occasion,  presided  over  by  Valerie, 
bloomed  for  him.  Everybody  tossed  nosegays,  every 
body  seemed  happy;  and  it  was  Rose,  sitting  in  a 
low  chair  beside  Mrs.  Upton's  sofa,  who  summed  it 
up  for  him  with  the  exclamation,  "  I  do  so  love  being 
with  you,  Mrs.  Upton !  What  is  it  you  do  to  make 
people  so  comfortable?" 

"She  does  n't  do  anything,  people  who  do  things 
make  one  uncomfortable,"  remarked  Eddy,  loung 
ing  in  his  chair  and  eating  sandwiches.  "She  is, 
that  'sail." 

"What  is  she  then,"  Rose  queried,  her  eyes  fixed 
with  a  fond  effrontery  on  Valerie's  face.  "She  's 
like  everything  nice,  I  know;  nice  things  to  look  at, 
to  hear,  to  taste,  to  smell,  to  touch.  Let  us  do  her 
portrait,  Eddy,  you  know  the  analogy  game.  What 
flower  does  she  remind  you  of?  and  what  food? 
Acacia;  raspberries  and  cream.  What  musical  in 
strument  ?  What  animal  ?  Help  me,  Jack. ' ' 

"The  musical  instrument  is  a  chime  of  silver 
bells,"  said  Jack,  while  Valerie  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  with  amused  interest.  ' '  And  the  animal  is, 
I  think,  a  bird;  a  bright,  soft-eyed  bird,  that  flits 
and  poises  on  tall  grasses." 

"Yes;  that  does.  And  now  we  will  do  you,  Jack. 
You  are  like  a  very  nervous,  very  brave  dog. ' ' 

"And  like  a  Christmas  rose,"  said  Valerie,  "and 
like  a  flute." 

"And  the  food  he  reminds  me  of,"  finished  Eddy, 
' '  is  baked  beans. ' ' 


152  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Good, "  said  Rose.  "Now,  Imogen.  What  flower 
is  she  like?  Jack,  you  will  tell  us. " 

Jack  looked  suddenly  like  the  nervous  dog,  and 
Rose  handsomely  started  the  portrait  with,  "Calla 
lily." 

"That  's  it,"  Eddy  agreed.  "And  the  food  she  's 
like  is  cold  lemon-shape,  you  know  the  stuff  I  mean ; 
and  her  animal,— there  is  no  animal  for  Imogen; 
she  is  too  loftily  human. ' ' 

"Her  instrument  is  the  organ,"  Rose  finished,  as 
if  to  end  as  handsomely  as  she  had  begun;  "the 
organ  playing  the  Pilgrims'  March  from  "Tann- 
hauser. ' ' 

"Excellent,"  said  Eddy. 

These  young  people  had  done  the  portrait  without 
help  and  after  the  slight  pause  with  which  their 
analogies  were  received  Jack  swiftly  summed  up 
Rose  as  Pdte-de-foie-gras,  gardenia,  a  piano,  and  a 
toy  Pomeranian. 

"Thanks,"  Rose  bowed;  "I  enjoy  playing  impu 
dence  to  your  dignity." 

"What  's  Imogen  up  to  just  now?"  Eddy  asked, 
quite  unruffled  by  Jack's  reflections  on  his  beloved. 
"When  did  you  see  her  last,  Jack?" 

"I  went  down  for  a  dress-rehearsal  the  day  before 
yesterday."  Jack  had  still  the  air  of  the  nervous 
dog,  walking  cautiously,  the  hair  of  its  back  standing 
upright. 

"Oh,  the  Cripple-Hellenic  affair.  How  Imogen 
loves  running  a  show. ' ' 

"And  how  well  she  does  it,"  said  Rose.  "What 
a  perfect  queen  she  would  have  made.  She  would 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  153 

have  laid  corner-stones ;  opened  bazaars ;  visited  hos 
pitals,  and  bowed  so  beautifully  from  a  carriage — 
with  such  a  sense  of  responsibility  in  the  quality  of 
her  smile. ' ' 

''How  inane  you  are,  Rose,"  said  Jack.  "Noth 
ing  less  queen-like,  in  that  decorative  sense,  than 
Imogen,  can  be  imagined.  She  works  day  and  night 
for  this  thing  in  which  you  pretty  young  people  get 
all  the  sixpences  and  she  all  the  kicks.  To  bear  the 
burden  is  all  she  does,  or  asks  to  do. ' ' 

' '  Why,  my  dear  Jack, ' '  Rose  opened  widely  candid 
eyes,  "queens  have  to  work  like  fun,  I  can  tell  you. 
And  who  under  the  sun  would  think  of  kicking 
Imogen?" 

"Besides,"  said  Eddy,  rising  to  saunter  about  the 
room,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, " Imogen  is  n't  so 
superhuman  as  your  fond  imagination  paints  her, 
my  dear  Jack.  She  knows  that  the  most  decorative 
role  of  all  is  just  that,  the  weary,  patient  Atlas, 
bearing  the  happy  world  on  his  shoulders. ' ' 

Mrs.  Upton,  in  her  corner  of  the  sofa,  had  been 
turning  the  leaves  of  a  rare  old  edition,  glancing  up 
quietly  at  the  speakers  while  the  innocent  ripples 
slid  on  from  the  afternoon's  first  sunny  shallows  to 
these  ambiguous  depths.  It  was  now  in  a  voice  that 
Jack  had  never  heard  from  her  before  that  she  said, 
still  continuing  to  turn,  her  eyes  downcast: 

' '  How  excessively  unkind  and  untrue,  Eddy. ' ' 

Tf  conscious  of  nnkindness,  Eddy,  at  all  events, 
did  n't  resort  to  artifice  as  Rose,— Jack  still  smarted 
from  it,— had  done.  He  continued  to  smile,  taking 
up  a  small,  milky  vase  to  examine  it,  while  he  an- 


154  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

swered  in  his  chill,  cheerful  tones:  " Don't  be  up  in 
arms,  mama,  because  one  of  your  swans  gives  the 
other  a  fraternal  peck.  Imogen  and  I  always  peck 
at  each  other ;  it  's  not  behind  her  back  alone  that  I 
do  it.  And  I  'm  saying  nothing  nasty.  It  's  only 
people  like  Imogen  who  get  the  good  works  of  the 
world  done  at  all.  If  they  did  n't  love  it,  just;  if 
they  did  n't  feel  the  delight  in  it  that  an  artist  feels 
in  his  work,  or  that  Rose  feels  in  dancing  better  and 
looking  prettier  than  any  girl  in  a  ball-room,— that 
any  one  feels  in  self-realization,— why,  the  cripples 
would  die  off  like  anything. ' ' 

"It  's  a  very  different  order  of  self-realization"; 
Mrs.  Upton  continued  to  turn  her  leaves. 

Jack  knew  that  she  was  deeply  displeased,  and 
mingled  with  his  own  baffled  vexation  was  the  relief 
of  feeling  himself  at  one  with  her,  altogether  at  one, 
in  opposition  to  this  implied  criticism  of  Imogen. 
Together  they  shared  the  conviction— was  it  the 
only  one  they  shared  about  Imogen? — that  she  sim 
ply  cared  about  being  good  more  than  about  any 
thing  else  in  the  world;  together  they  recognized 
such  a  purpose  and  such  a  longing  as  a  high  and  an 
ennobling  one. 

The  tone  of  her  last  remark  had  been  final.  The 
talk  passed  at  once  away  from  Imogen  and  turned 
on  Jack's  last  acquisitions  in  white  porcelain  and 
on  his  last  piece  of  work,  just  returned  from  a 
winter  exhibition.  Eddy  went  with  him  into  the 
studio  to  see  it  and  Mrs.  Upton  and  Rose  were  left 
alone.  It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Upton,  touching  the 
other's  shoulder  so  that  she  looked  up  from  the  fur 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  155 

she  was  fastening,  said,  "You  are  not  a  nice  little 
girl,  Rose." 

The  "little  girl"  stared.  Anything  so  suave  yet 
so  firmly  intended  as  unpleasant  had  never  been  ad 
dressed  to  her.  For  once  in  her  life  she  was  at  a 
loss ;  and  after  the  stare  she  flushed  scarlet,  the  tears 
rushing  to  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Upton,"  she  faltered,  "what  do  you 
mean?" 

' '  Hitting  in  the  dark  is  n 't  a  nice  thing  to  do. ' ' 

"Hitting  in  the  dark?" 

' '  Yes.    You  know  quite  well. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  really,  really,— I  did  n't  mean—"  Rose 
almost  wailed.  There  was  no  escape  from  those  clear 
eyes.  They  did  n 't  look  sad  or  angry ;  they  merely 
penetrated,  spreading  dismay  within  her. 

Mrs.  Upton  now  took  the  flushed  face  between  her 
hands  and  gravely  considered  it.  "Did  n't  you?" 
she  asked. 

Rose  could  look  back  no  longer.  Before  that  gaze 
a  sense  of  utter  darkness  descended  upon  her.  She 
felt,  helplessly,  like  a  naughty,  cowering  child.  Her 
eyes  dropped  and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

' '  Please,  please  forgive  me.  I  did  n 't  dream  you  'd 
understand.  I  did  n 't  mean  anybody  to  understand, 
except,  perhaps,  Eddy.  I  don't  know  why,  it  's 
odious  of  me— but  Imogen  does  irritate  me,  just  a 
little,  just  because  she  is  so  good,  you  know — so 
lovely." 

But  this,  too,  Mrs.  Upton  penetrated.  "Whether 
Imogen  is  so  good  and  lovely  that  she  irritates  you 
is  another  matter.  But,  whatever  you  may  think  of 


156  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

her,  don't, "—and  here  she  paused  a  little  over  the 
proper  expressing  of  Rose's  misdeed, — "don't  call 
her  a  calla  lily,"  she  found.  And  she  finished, 
"Especially  not  before  her  mother,  who  is  not  so 
blind  to  your  meaning  as  we  must  hope  that  Jack  is. " 

Poor  Rose  looked  now  like  the  naughty  child  after 
a  deserved  chastisement. 

' '  Oh,  I  am  so  miserable ' ' ;  this  statement  of  smart 
ing  fact  was  all  she  found  to  say.  "And  I  do  care 
for  you  so.  I  would  rather  please  you  than  any 
one.— Can't  you  forgive  me?" 

But  at  this  point  the  darkness  was  lifted,  for  Mrs. 
Upton,  smiling  at  last,  put  her  arms  around  her, 
kissed  her,  and  said,  "Be  a  nice  little  girl." 


XII 


f  MO  GEN,    during    this    fortnight    of    her 
mother's  absence,  had  time  to  contem 
plate  her  impressions  of  change. 

Their  last  little  scene  together  had 
emphasized   her   consciousness   of    the 
many  things  that  lay  beneath  it. 

Her  mother  had  felt  that  the  tears  on  that  occa 
sion  were  in  part  a  result  of  the  day's  earlier  en 
counter,  muffled  though  it  was,  over  Sir  Basil,  and 
had  attempted,  on  ground  of  her  own  choosing,  to 
lure  her  child  away  from  the  seeing,  not  only  of  Sir 
Basil— he  was  a  mere  symbol— but  of  all  the  things 
whe-ie  she  must  know  that  Imogen  saw  her  as  wrong. 

"She  wanted  to  blur  my  reason  with  instinct;  to 
mesh  me  in  the  blind  filial  thing,"  Imogen  reflected. 
In  looking  back  she  could  feel  with  satisfaction  that 
her  reason  had  dominated  the  scene  as  a  lighthouse 
beacon  shines  steadily  over  tossing  and  ambiguous 
waters.  Satisfaction  was  in  the  vision;  the  deep 
content  of  having,  as  she  would  have  expressed  it, 
"been  true  to  her  light."  But  it  was  only  in  this 
vision  of  her  own  stability  of  soul  that  satisfaction 
lay. 

In  Jack's  absence,  and  in  her  mother's,  she  could 
gage  more  accurately  what  her  mother  had  done  to 
Jack.  She  had  long  felt  it,  that  something  different. 

167 


158  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

growing  vaguely  in  him— so  vaguely  that  it  was  like 
nothing  with  a  definite  edge  or  shape,  resembling, 
rather,  a  shadow  of  the  encompassing  gloom,  a 
shadow  that  only  her  own  far-reaching  beams  re 
vealed.  As  the  light  hovers  on  the  confines  of  the 
dark  she  had  felt— a  silence. 

He  was  silent— he  watched.  That  was  the  sum 
ming  up  of  the  change.  He  really  seemed  to  convey 
to  her  through  his  silence  that  he  understood  her 
now,  or  was  coming  to,  better  than  he  had  ever  done 
before,  better  than  she  understood  herself.  And 
with  the  new  understanding  it  was  exactly  as  if  he 
had  found  that  his  focus  was  misdirected.  He  no 
longer  looked  up ;  Imogen  knew  that  by  the  fact 
that  when,  metaphorically,  her  eyes  were  cast  down 
to  meet  with  approbation  and  sweet  encouragement 
his  upturned  admiration,  vacancy,  only,  met  their 
gaze.  He  no  longer — so  her  beam  pierced  further 
and  further— looked  at  her  on  a  level,  with  the 
frankness  of  mere  mutual  need  and  trust.  No ;  such 
silence,  such  watchfulness  implied  superiority.  The 
last  verge  of  shadow  was  reached  when  she  could 
make  out  that  he  looked  at  her  from  an  affectionate, 
a  paternal, — oh,  yes,  still  a  very  lover-like, — height, 
not  less  watchful  for  being  tender;  not  less  steady 
for  being,  still,  rather  puzzled.  Beyond  that  she 
could  n't  pierce.  It  was  indeed  a  limit  denoting  a 
silent  revolution  in  their  relationship.  When  she 
came  to  the  realization,  Imogen,  starting  back,  indig 
nant  through  all  her  being,  promised  herself  that  if 
he  looked  down  she,  at  all  events,  would  never  lend 
herself  to  the  preposterous  topsy-turvydom  by  look- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  159 

ing  up.  She  would  firmly  ignore  that  shift  of  focus. 
She  would  look  straight  before  her;  she  would  look, 
as  she  spoke,  the  truth.  She  "followed  her  gleam." 
She  stood  beside  her  beacon.  And  she  told  herself 
that  her  truth,  her  holding  to  it,  might  cost  her  a 
great  deal. 

It  was  not  that  she  feared  to  lose  him, — if  she 
chose  to  keep  him;  but  it  might  be  that  there  were 
terms  on  which  she  would  not  care  to  keep  him.  If, 
it  was  still  an  almost  unimaginable  "if,"  he  could 
not,  would  not  come  once  more  to  see  clearly,  then, 
as  lover,  he  must  be  put  aside,  and  even  as  friend 
learn  that  she  had  little  use  for  a  friendship  so 
warped  from  its  old  attitude. 

Under  this  stoic  resolve  there  was  growing  in  poor 
Imogen  a  tossing  of  confused  pain  and  alarm.  She 
could  see  change  so  clearly,  but  causes  were  un- 
traceable,  an  impalpable  tangle. 

Why  was  it  so?  What  had  happened?  What, 
above  all,  had  her  mother  done  to  Jack? 

It  was  all  about  her  mother  that  change  cen 
tered,  from  her  that  it  came.  It  was  a  web,  a  com 
plexity  of  airy  filaments  that  met  her  scrutiny. 
Here  hovered  her  mother's  smile,  here  her  thought 
ful,  observant  silences.  There  Sir  Basil's  letter; 
Felkin's  departure;  all  the  blurred  medley  of  the 
times  when  she  had  talked  to  Jack  and  Mary  and 
her  mother  had  listened.  A  dimness,  a  haze,  was 
over  all,  and  she  only  escaped  it,  broke  through  it, 
when,  fighting  her  way  out  to  her  own  secure  air 
and  sunlight,  she  told  herself,— as,  at  all  events,  the 
nearest  truth  to  hand,— that  it  was  about  Jack,  over 


160  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

him,  that  the  web  had  been  spun :  the  web  of  a  smile 
that  claimed  nothing,  yet  that  chained  men ;  the  web 
of  a  vague,  sweet  silence,  that  judged  nothing,  yet 
softly  blighted,  through  its  own  indifference,  all 
other  people's  enthusiasms.  And  again  and  again, 
during  these  days  of  adjustment  to  the  clear  and  the 
confused  vision,  Imogen  felt  the  salt  hot  tears  burn 
ing  in  her  throat  and  eyes. 

When  Jack  and  her  mother  were  both  back  again 
and  he  and  she  united  in  the  mechanical  interests  of 
the  tableaux,  now  imminent,  the  strangest  loneliness 
lay  in  the  fact  that  she  could  no  longer  share  her 
grief,  her  fear,  her  anger,  with  Jack.  He  was  there, 
near  her;  but  he  was,  far,  far  away;  and  she  must 
control  any  impulse  that  would  draw  him  near. 

She  put  him  to  the  test;  she  measured  his  worth 
by  his  power  of  recognition,  his  power  of  discrimina 
tion  between  her  mother's  instinctive  allurements 
and  her  own  high  demand.  But  while  with  her  mind 
and  soul,  as  she  told  herself,  she  thus  held  him  away, 
she  was  conscious  of  the  inner  wail  of  loneliness  and 
unconscious  that,  under  the  steady  resolution,  every 
faculty,  every  charm  she  possessed,  was  spinning  and 
stretching  itself  out  to  surround  and  hold  him. 

She  made  no  appeal,  but  he  would  feel  her  quiet 
sadness  weigh  upon  him ;  she  made  no  reproach,  but 
she  knew  that  he  could  but  be  full  of  pity  for  her 
weariness,  of  love  for  her  devotedness,  when  her  pale 
profile  bent  by  lamplight  over  all  the  tedious  work 
of  the  tableaux;  knew  that  her  patient  "Good-night, 
dear  Jack,— I  'm  too  tired  to  stay  and  talk,"  must 
smite  him  with  compunction  and  uneasiness. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  161 

It  was  no  direct  communication ;  she  used  symbols 
to  convey  to  him  the  significance  that  he  seemed  to 
be  forgetting.  She  took  him  to  one  of  Miss  Bocock's 
lectures,  gently  disowning  praise  for  her  part  in 
their  success.  She  took  him  to  the  hospital  for 
cripple  children,  where  the  nurses  smiled  at  her  and 
the  children  clambered,  crutches  and  all,  into  her 
lap, — she  knew  how  lovely  she  must  look,  enfolding 
cripple  children.  She  took  both  her  mother  and  him 
to  her  Girls'  Club  on  the  East  side,  where  they  saw 
her  surrounded  by  adoring  gratitude  and  enthu 
siasm,  where  she  sat  hand  in  hand  with  her  ' '  girls, ' ' 
all  sympathy,  all  tenderness,  all  interest, — all  the 
things  that  Jack  had  loved  her  for  and  that  he  still, 
of  course,  loved  her  for.  Here  she  must  seem  to  him 
like  a  sister  of  charity,  carrying  high  her  lamp  of 
love  among  these  dark  lives.  And  she  was  careful 
that  their  reflected  light  should  shine  back  upon  her. 
"I  want  you  to  know  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  Jack, 
Miss  Mc-Ginty;  and  this,  Evangeline,  is  my  friend, 
Mr.  Pennington,"— so  she  would  lead  him  up  to  one 
of  the  girls,  bold  and  gay  of  eye,  highly  decorated 
of  person.  She  knew  that  she  left  her  reputation 
in  safe  hands  with  Evangeline.  "Are  you  a  friend 
of  Miss  Upton's?  She  's  fine.  We  're  all  just  crazy 
about  her."  She  had,  as  she  went  from  them,  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  so  much  of  Evangeline 's 
crude  but  sincere  pseon;  they  were  all  "just  crazy" 
about  her. 

And  a  further  shining  of  light  suggested  itself  to 
her. 

"Mamma  darling,"  she  said,  as  they  were  going 
u 


162  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

home  in  the  clashing,  clattering  "elevated,"  "you 
must  n't  think  me  naughty,  but  I  had  to  ask  them— 
my  own  particular  girls — to  go  with  us  to  the  Phil 
harmonic.  They  are  becoming  so  interested  in  their 
music  and  it  will  be  a  treat  for  them,  will  really 
mean  something  in  their  lives,  will  really  live  for 
them,  in  them." 

Mrs.  Upton  leaned  forward  to  listen  in  the  mingled 
uproar  of  banging  doors  and  vociferous  announce 
ments  from  the  conductor.  A  look  of  uncertainty 
crossed  her  face  and  Imogen  hastened  to  add:  "No, 
it  's  not  the  extravagance  you  think.  I  had  a  splen 
did  idea.  I  'm  going  to  sell  that  old  ring  that 
Grandmamma  Cray  left  me.  Rose  told  me  once  that 
I  could  get  a  lot  of  money  for  it. ' ' 

Swiftly  flushing,  her  brows  knitted,  the  din  about 
them  evidently  adding  to  her  perturbation,  Mrs. 
Upton,  with  a  sharpness  of  utterance  that  Jack  had 
never  heard  from  her,  said:  "Your  sapphire  ring? 
Your  grandmother's  ring?  Indeed,  indeed,  Imogen, 
I  must  ask  you  not  to  do  that ! ' ' 

"Why,  mama  dear,  why?"  Imogen's  surprise 
was  genuine  and  an  answering  severity  was  checked 
by  Jack's  presence. 

"It  was  my  mother's  ring." 

"But  what  better  use  could  I  make  of  it,  mama? 
I  rarely  wear  any  ring  but  the  beautiful  pearl  that 
papa  gave  me." 

"I  could  n't  bear  to  have  you  sell  it." 

"But,  mama  dear,  why?  I  must  ask  it.  How 
can  I  sacrifice  so  much  for  a  mere  whim  ? ' ' 

"I  must  ask  you  to  yield  to  a  mere  whim,  then. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  163 

Pray  give  up  the  thought.  We  will  find  the  money 
in  some  other  way. ' ' 

"Of  course,  mama,  if  you  insist,  I  must  yield," 
Imogen  said,  sinking  back  in  her  seat  beside  the  at 
tentive  Jack,  and  hoping  that  her  mournful  acquies 
cence  might  show  in  its  true  light  to  him,  even  if  her 
mother's  sentimental  selfishness  did  n't.  And  later, 
when  he  very  prettily  insisted  on  himself  entertain 
ing  the  club-girls  at  the  Philharmonic,  she  felt  that, 
after  all,  no  one  but  her  mother  had  lost  in  the  en 
counter.  The  girls  were  to  have  their  concert 
(though  they  might  have  had  many  such,  had  not 
her  mother  so  robbed  them,  there  was  still  that 
wound)  and  she  was  to  keep  her  ring;  and  she  was 
not  sorry  for  that,  for  it  did  go  well  with  the  pearl. 
Above  all,  Jack  must  have  appreciated  both  her 
generous  intention  and  her  relinquishing  of  it.  Yet 
she  had  just  to  test  his  appreciation. 

"Indeed  I  do  accept,  Jack.  I  can't  bear  to  have 
them  disappointed  for  a  childish  fancy,  like  that  of 
poor  mama's,  and  we  have  no  right  to  afford  it  by 
any  other  means.  Is  n't  it  strange  that  any  one 
should  care  more  for  a  colored  bit  of  stone  than  for 
some  high  and  shining  hours  in  those  girls'  gray 
lives?" 

But  Jack  said :  ' '  Oh,  I  perfectly  understand  what 
she  felt  about  it.  It  was  her  mother's  ring.  She 
probably  remembers  seeing  it  on  her  mother 's  hand. ' ' 
So  Imogen  had,  again,  to  recognize  the  edge  of  the 
shadow. 

They,  ail  of  them,  Jack,  Mary,  and  her  mother, 
went  with  her  and  her  girls  to  the  concert.  Jack 


164  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

had  taken  two  boxes  in  the  semicircle  that  sweeps 
round  Carnegie  Hall,  overhanging  the  level  sea  of 
heads  below.  Rose  Packer,  just  come  to  town,  was 
next  them,  with  the  friends  she  was  visiting  in  New 
York,  two  pretty,  elaborately  dressed  girls,  frothing 
with  youthful  high  spirits,  and  their  mother,  an 
abundant,  skilfully-girthed  matron.  The  Langleys 
were  very  fashionable  and  very  wealthy ;  their  houses 
in  America,  England,  Italy,  their  yachts  and  motor 
cars,  their  dances  and  dinners,  furnished  matter  for 
constant  and  uplifted  discourse  in  the  society  col 
umns  of  the  English-speaking  press  all  over  the 
world.  Every  one  of  Imogen's  factory  girls  knew 
them  by  name  and  a  stir  of  whispers  and  nudges 
announced  their  recognition. 

Mrs.  Langley  leaned  over  the  low  partition  to 
clasp  Mrs.  Upton's  hand,— they  had  known  each 
other  since  girlhood, — and  to  smile  benignly  upon 
Imogen,  casting  a  glance  upon  the  self-conscious, 
staring  girls,  whose  clothing  was  a  travesty  of  her 
own  consummate  modishness  as  their  manners  at 
once  attempted  to  echo  her  sweetness  and  suavity. 

"What  a  nice  idea,'«  she  murmured  to  Imogen; 
"and  to  have  them  hear  it  in  the  best  way  possible, 
too.  Not  crowded  into  cheap,  stuffy  seats." 

"That  would  hardly  have  been  possible,  since  I 
do  not  myself  care  to  hear  music  in  cheap  seats. 
What  is  not  good  enough  for  me  is  not  good  enough 
for  my  friends.  To-day  we  all  owe  our  pleasure  to 
Mr.  Pennington." 

Mrs.  Langley,  blandly  interested  in  this  creditable1 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  165 

enlightenment,  turned  to  Jack  with  questioning 
about  the  tableaux. 

''We  are  all  so  much  interested  in  Imogen's  in 
terests,  are  n  't  we  ?  It  's  such  an  excellent  idea.  My 
girls  are  so  sorry  that  they  can't  be  in  them.  Rose 
tells  me,  Imogen,  that  there  was  some  idea  of  your 
doing  Antigone. ' ' 

"None  whatever,"  said  Imogen,  with  no  abate 
ment  of  frigidity.  She  disapproved  of  leaders  of 
fashion. 

"I  only  meant,"  Rose  leaned  forward,  "that  we 
wanted  you  to,  so  much." 

"And  can't  you  persuade  her?  You  would  look 
so  well,  my  dear  child.  Talk  her  over,  Valerie,  you 
and  Mr.  Pennington."  Mrs.  Langley  looked  back  at 
her  friend. 

"It  would  hardly  do  just  now,  I  think,"  Valerie 
answered. 

"But  for  a  charity— "  Mrs.  Langley  urged  her 
mitigation  with  a  smile  that  expressed,  to  Imogen's 
irritated  sensibilities,  all  the  trite  conformity  of  the 
mammon-server. 

"I  don't  think  it  would  do,"  Valerie  repeated. 

"Pray  don't  think  my  motive  in  refusing  a  con 
ventional  one,"  said  Imogen,  with  an  irrepressible 
severity  that  included  her  mother  as  well  as  Rose 
and  Mrs.  Langley.  These  two  sank  back  in  their 
seats  and  the  symphony  began. 

Resting  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  her  elbow  on  her 
knee.  Imogen  leaned  forward,  as  if  out  of  the  per 
plexing,  weary  world  into  the  sphere  of  the  soul. 


166  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

She  smiled  deeply  at  one  of  her  girls  while  she  fell 
into  the  listening  harmony  of  attitude,  and  her  deli 
cate  face  took  on  a  look  of  rapt  exaltation. 

Jack  was  watching  her,  she  knew ;  though  she  did 
not  know  that  her  own  consciousness  of  the  fact  ef 
fectually  prevented  her  from  receiving  as  more  than 
a  blurred  sensation  the  sounds  that  fell  upon  her  ear. 

She  adjusted  her  face,  her  attitude,  as  a  painter 
expresses  an  idea  through  the  medium  of  form,  and 
her  idea  was  to  look  as  though  feeling  the  noblest 
things  that  one  can  feel.  And  at  the  end  of  the  first 
movement,  the  vaguely  heard  harmony  without  re 
sponding  to  the  harmony  of  this  inner  purpose,  the 
music's  tragic  acceptance  of  doom  echoing  her  own 
deep  sense  of  loneliness,  the  strange  new  sorrow 
tangling  her  life,  tears  rose  beautifully  to  her  eyes; 
a  tear  slid  down  her  cheek. 

She  put  up  her  handkerchief  quietly  and  dried  it, 
glancing  now  at  Jack  beside  her.  He  was  making  a 
neat  entry  in  a  note-book,  technically  interested  in 
the  rendering  by  a  new  conductor.  The  sight  struck 
through  her  and  brought  her  soaring  sadness  to 
earth.  Anger,  deep  and  gnawing,  filled  her.  He 
had  not  seen  her  tears,  or,  if  he  had,  did  not  care 
that  she  was  sad.  It  was  little  consolation  for  her 
hurt  to  see  good  Mary's  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  wide 
solicitude.  She  smiled,  ever  so  gravely  and  tenderly, 
at  Mary,  and  turned  her  eyes  away. 

A  babble  of  silly  enthusiasm  had  begun  in  the 
Langley  box  and  Rose  had  just  effected  a  change  of 
seat  that  brought  her  next  to  her  adored  Mrs. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  167 

Upton  and  nearer  her  dear  Mary.  Imogen  almost 
felt  that  hostile  forces  had  clustered  behind  her  back, 
especially  as  Jack  turned  in  his  chair  to  talk  to  Mary 
and  her  mother. 

' '  Just  too  lovely ! ' '  exclaimed  one  of  the  younger 
Miss  Langleys,  in  much  the  same  vernacular  as  that 
used  by  Imogen's  protegees. 

She  looked  round  at  these  to  see  one  yawning 
cavernously,  on  the  cessation  of  uncomprehended 
sound;  while  another's  eyes,  drowsed  as  if  by  some 
narcotic,  sought  the  relief  of  visual  interest  in  the 
late-comers  who  filed  in  below.  A  third  sat  in  an 
attitude  of  sodden  preoccupation,  breathing  heavily 
and  gazing  at  the  Langleys  and  at  Rose,  who  wore 
to-day  a  wonderful  dress.  Only  a  rounded  little 
Jewess,  with  eyes  of  black  lacquer  set  in  a  fat,  ac- 
quiline  face,  quite  Imogen's  least  favorite  of  her 
girls,  showed  a  proper  appreciation.  She  was  as 
intent  and  as  preoccupied  as  Jack  had  been. 

The  second  movement  began,  a  movement  hurry 
ing,  dissatisfied,  rising  in  appeal  and  aspiration, 
beaten  back;  turning  upon  itself  continually,  con 
tinually  to  rise  again, — baffled,  frustrated,  yet  in 
domitable.  And  as  Imogen  listened  her  features 
took  on  a  mask-like  look  of  gloom.  How  alone  she 
was  among  them  all. 

She  was  glad  in  the  third  movement,  her  mind  in 
its  knotted  concentration  catching  but  one  passage, 
and  that  given  with  a  new  rendering,  to  emphasize 
her  displeasure  by  a  little  shudder  and  frown.  An 
uproar  of  enthusiasm  arose  after  the  movement  and 


168  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Imogen  heard  one  of  the  factory  girls  behind  her,  in 
answer  to  a  question  from  her  mother,  ejaculate 
"Fine!" 

When  her  mother  leaned  to  her,  with  the  same 
"Was  n't  it  splendid?"  Imogen  found  relief  in 
answering  firmly,  ''I  thought  it  insolent." 

"Insolent?  That  adagio  bit?"— Jack,  evidently, 
had  seen  her  symptoms  of  distress.— "Why,  I 
thought  it  a  most  exquisite  interpretation. ' ' 

"So  did  I,"  said  Mrs.  Upton  rather  sadly  from 
behind. 

"It  hurt  me,  mama  dear,"  said  Imogen.  "But 
then  I  know  this  symphony  so  well,  love  it  so  much, 
that  I  perhaps  feel  intolerantly  toward  new  read 
ings." 

As  the  next,  and  last,  movement  began,  she  heard 
Rose,  under  her  breath  yet  quite  loud  enough,  mur 
mur,  "Bunkum  !"  The  ejaculation  was  nicely  modu 
lated  to  reach  her  own  ears  alone. 

With  a  deepened  sense  of  alienation,  Imogen  sat 
enveloped  by  the  unheard  thunders  of  the  final  move 
ment.  Yes,  Rose  would  hide  her  impertinence  from 
others'  ears.  Imogen  had  noted  the  growing  tender 
ness,  light  and  playful,  between  her  mother  and  the 
girl.  Behind  her,  presently,  she  rustled  in  all  her 
silks  as  she  leaned  to  whisper  something  to  Mrs.  Up 
ton— "You  will  come  and  have  tea  with  me,— at 
Sherry's,— all  by  ourselves?"  Imogen  caught. 

Her  mother  was  not  the  initiator,  but  her  acquies 
cence  was  an  offense,  and  to  Imogen,  acutely  con 
scious  of  the  whispered  colloquy,  each  murmur  ran 
needles  of  anger  into  her  stretched  and  vibrating 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  169 

nerves.  At  last  she  turned  eyes  portentously 
widened  and  a  prolonged  "Ss-s-s-h"  upon  them. 

"People  ought  n't  to  whisper,"  Jack  smiled  com- 
prehendingly  at  her,  when  they  reached  the  end  of 
the  symphony;  the  rest  of  the  movement  having 
been  occupied,  for  Imogen,  with  a  sense  of  indignant 
injury. 

She  had  caught  his  attention,  then,  with  her  re 
proof.  There  was  sudden  balm  in  his  sympathy. 
The  memory  of  the  unnoticed  tear  still  rankled  in 
her,  but  she  was  able  to  smile  back.  "Some  people 
will  always  be  the  money-lenders  in  the  temple." 

At  once  the  balm  was  embittered.  She  had 
trusted  too  much  to  his  sympathy.  He  flushed  his 
quick,  facile  flush,  and  she  was  again  at  the  confines 
of  the  shadow.  Really,  it  was  coming  to  a  pass 
when  she  could  venture  no  least  criticism,  even  by 
implication,  of  her  mother. 

But,  keeping  up  her  smile,  she  went  on:  "You 
don't  feel  that?  To  me,  music  is  a  temple,  the  cathe 
dral  of  my  soul.  And  the  chink  of  money,  the  barter 
ing  of  social  trivialities,  jars  on  me  like  a  sacrilege." 

He  looked  away,  still  with  the  flush.  "Are  n't  we 
all,  more  or  less,  worshipers  or  money-lenders  by 
turn?  My  mind  often  strays." 

"Not  to  the  glitter  of  common  coin,"  she  insisted, 
urging  with  mildness  his  own  bettor  self  upon  him ; 
for,  yes,  rather  than  judge  her  mother  he  would 
lower  his  own  ideal.  All  the  more  reason,  then,  for 
her  to  hold  fast  to  her  own  truth,  and  see  its  light 
place  him  where  it  must.  If  he  now  thought  her 
priggish,— well,  that  did  place  him. 


170  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

''Oh,  yes,  it  does,  often,"  he  rejoined;  but  now 
he  smiled  at  her  as  though  her  very  solemnity,  her 
very  lack  of  humor,  touched  him;  it  was  once  more 
the  looking  down  of  the  shifted  focus.  Then  he  ap 
pealed  a  little. 

' '  You  must  n  't  be  too  hard  on  people  for  not  feel 
ing  as  you  do— all  the  time." 

Consistency  did  not  permit  her  an  answer,  for  the 
next  piece  had  begun. 

When  the  concert  was  over,  Mrs.  Langley  offered 
the  hospitality  of  her  electric  brougham  to  three  of 
them.  Rose  and  her  girls  were  going  to  a  tea  close 
by.  Imogen  said  that  she  preferred  walking  and 
Jack  said  that  he  would  go  with  her;  so  Mary  and 
Mrs.  Upton  departed  with  Mrs.  Langley  and,  the 
factory  girls  dispatched  to  their  distances  by  sub 
way,  the  young  couple  started  on  their  way  down 
crowded  Fifth  Avenue. 

It  was  a  bright,  reverberating  day,  dry  and  cloud 
less,  and,  as  they  walked  shoulder  to  shoulder,  their 
heels  rang  metallically  on  the  frosty  pavements. 
Above  the  sloping  canon  of  the  avenue,  the  sky 
stretched,  a  long  strip  of  scintillating  blue.  The 
"Flat-Iron"  building  towered  appallingly  into  the 
middle  distance  like  the  ship  prow  of  some  giant  in 
vasion.  The  significance  of  the  scene  was  of  nothing 
nobly  permanent,  but  it  was  exhilarating  in  its  ex 
pression  of  inquisitive,  adventurous  life,  shaping  its 
facile  ideals  in  vast,  fluent  forms. 

Imogen's  face,  bathed  in  the  late  sunlight,  showed 
its  usual  calm;  inwardly,  she  was  drawn  tight  and 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  171 

tense  as  an  arrow  to  the  bow-head,  in  a  tingling 
readiness  to  shoot  far  and  free  at  any  challenge. 

A  surface  constraint  was  manifested  in  Jack's 
nervous  features,  but  she  guessed  that  his  conscious 
ness  had  not  reached  the  pitch  of  her  own  acuteness, 
and  made  him  only  aware  of  a  difference  as  yet  un 
adjusted  between  them.  Indeed,  with  a  quiet  inter 
est  that  she  knew  was  not  assumed,  he  presently 
commented  to  her  on  the  odd  disproportion  between 
the  streaming  humanity  and  its  enormous  frame. 

' '  If  one  looks  at  it  as  a  whole  it  's  as  inharmonious 
as  a  high,  huge  stage  with  its  tiny  figures  before  the 
footlights.  It  's  quite  out  of  scale  as  a  setting  for 
the  human  form.  It  's  awfully  ugly,  and  yet  it  's 
rather  splendid,  too." 

Imogen  assented. 

"We  are  still  juggling  with  our  possibilities," 
said  Jack,  and  he  continued  to  talk  on  of  the  Amer 
ican  people  and  their  possibilities— his  favorite  topic 
—so  quietly,  so  happily,  even,  that  Imogen  felt  sud 
denly  a  relaxation  of  the  miserable  mood  that  liad 
held  her  during  all  the  afternoon. 

His  comradely  tone  brought  her  the  sensation  of 
their  old,  their  so  recent,  relation,  complete,  un- 
flawed,  once  more.  An  impulse  of  recovery  rose  in 
her,  and,  her  mind  busy  with  the  sweet  imagination, 
she  said  presently,  reflectively,  "I  think  I  will  do 
your  Antigone  after  all." 

Completely  without  coquetry,  and  sincerely  inno 
cent  of  feminine  wiles,  Imogen  had  always  known, 
sub-consciously  as  it  were,  for  the  matter  seldom  as- 


172  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

sumed  the  least  significance  for  her,  that  Jack  de 
lighted  in  her  personal  appearance.  She  saw  herself, 
suddenly,  in  all  the  appealing  youth  and  beauty  of 
the  Grecian  heroine,  stamping  on  his  heart,  by  means 
of  the  outer  manifestation,  that  inner  reality  to 
which  he  had  become  so  strangely  blind.  It  was  to 
this  revelation  of  reality  that  her  thought  clung,  and 
an  added  impulse  of  mere  tenderness  had  helped  to 
bring  the  words  to  her  lips.  In  her  essential  child 
ishness  where  emotion  and  the  drama  of  the  senses 
were  concerned,  she  could  not  have  guessed  that  the 
impulse,  with  its  tender  mask,  was  the  primitive  one 
of  conquest,  the  cruel  female  instinct  for  holding 
even  where  one  might  not  care  to  keep.  At  the  bot 
tom  of  her  heart,  a  realm  never  visited  by  her  un 
spotted  thoughts,  was  a  yearning,  strangely  mingled, 
to  be  adored,  and  to  wreak  vengeance  for  the  falter 
ing  in  adoration  that  she  had  felt.  Ah,  to  bind  him ! 
—to  bind  him,  helpless,  to  her !  That  was  the  min 
gled  cry. 

Jack  looked  round  at  her,  as  unconscious  as  she  of 
these  pathetic  and  tigerish  depths,  but  though  his 
eye  lighted  with  the  artist's  delight  in  the  vision  that 
he  had  relinquished  reluctantly,  she  saw,  in  another 
moment,  that  he  hesitated. 

"That  would  be  splendid,  dear,— but,  can  you  go 
back  on  what  you  said?" 

"Why  not?  If  I  have  found  reason  to  reconsider 
my  first  decision?" 

"What  reason?  You  must  n't  do  it  just  to  please 
me,  you  know;  though  it  's  sweet  of  you,  if  that  is 
the  reason.  Your  mother,  you  see,  agreed  with  you. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALEo  173 

I  had  n't  realized  that  she  would  mind.  You  know 
what  she  said,  just  now." 

Jack  had  flushed  in  placing  his  objection  and 
Imogen,  keeping  grave,  sunlit  eyes  upon  him,  felt 
a  flush  rise  to  her  own  cheeks. 

"Do  you  feel  her  minding,  minding  in  such  a 
Way,  any  barrier?"  She  was  able  to  control  the 
pain,  the  anger,  that  his  hesitation  gave  her,  the 
quick  humiliation,  too,  and  she  went  on  with  only 
a  deepening  of  voice : 

"Perhaps  that  minding  of  hers  is  part  of  my 
reason.  I  have  no  right,  I  see  that  clearly  now,  to 
withhold  what  I  can  do  for  our  cause  from  any 
selfish  shrinking.  I  felt,  in  that  moment  when  she 
and  Mrs.  Langley  debated  on  the  conventional  as 
pect  of  the  matter,  that  I  would  be  glad,  yes,  glad, 
to  give  myself,  since  my  refusal  is  seen  in  the  same 
category  as  any  paltry,  social  scruple.  It  was  as  if 
a  deep  and  sacred  thing  of  one's  heart  were  suddenly 
dragged  out  and  exhibited  like  a  thickness  of  black 
at  the  edge  of  one's  note-paper. 

"Will  you  understand  me,  Jack,  when  I  say  that 
I  feel  that  I  can  in  no  way  so  atone  to  that  sacred 
memory  for  the  interpretation  that  was  an  insult ; 
in  no  way  keep  it  so  safe,  as  by  making  it  this  offer 
ing  of  myself.  It  is  for  papa  that  I  shall  do  it.  He 
would  have  wished  it.  I  shall  think  of  him  as  I 
stand  there,  of  him  and  of  the  children  that  we  are 
helping." 

She  spoke  with  her  deliberate  volubility,  neither 
hesitating  nor  hurrying,  her  meaning,  for  all  its 
grandiloquence  of  setting,  very  definite,  aud  Jack 


174  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

looked  a  little  dazed,  as  though  from  the  superabun 
dance  of  meaning. 

"Yes,  I  see,— yes,  you  are  quite  right,"  he  said. 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  going  over  her  chain  of 
cause  and  effect,  seeking  the  particular  link  that  the 
new  loyalty  in  him  had  resented.  And  then,  after 
the  pause,  finding  it:  "But  I  don't  believe  your 
mother  meant  it  like  that,"  he  added. 

His  eyes  met  Imogen's  as  he  said  it,  and  he  al 
most  fancied  that  something  swordlike  clashed 
against  his  glance,  something  that  she  swiftly  with 
drew  and  sheathed.  It  was  earnest  gentleness  alone 
that  answered  him. 

"What  do  you  think  she  did  mean  then,  Jack's 
Please  help  me  to  see  if  I  'm  unfair.  I  only  long  to 
be  perfectly  fair.  How  can  I  do  for  her,  unless  I 
am?" 

His  smoldering  resentment  was  quenched  by  a. 
sense  of  compunction  and  a  rising  hope. 

"That  's  dear  of  you,  Imogen,"  he  said.  "You 
are,  I  think,  unfair  at  times.  It  's  difficult  to  lay 
one 's  finger  on  it. ' ' 

"But  please  do  lay  your  finger  on  it— as  heavily 
as  you  can,  dear  Jack." 

"Well,  the  simile  will  do  for  my  impression.  The 
finger  you  lay  on  her  is  too  heavy.  You  exaggerate 
things  in  her — over-emphasize  things." 

She  was  holding  herself,  forcing  herself  to  look 
calmly  at  this  road  he  pointed  out  to  her,  the  only 
road,  perhaps,  that  would  lead  her  back  to  her  old 
place  with  him.  "Admirable  things,  you  think,  if 
one  saw  them  truly?" 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  175 

' '  I  don 't  know  about  admirable ;  but  warm,  sweet 
—at  the  worst,  harmless.  I  'm  sure,  to-day,  that  she 
only  meant  it  for  you,  for  what  she  felt  must  be  your 
shrinking.  Of  course  she  had  her  sense  of  fitness, 
too,  a  fitness  that  we  may,  as  you  feel,  overlook  when 
we  see  the  larger  fitness.  But  her  intention  was 
perfectly," — he  paused,  seeking  an  expression  for 
the  intention  and  repeated, — "Sweet,  warm,  harm 
less." 

Imogen  felt  that  she  was  holding  herself  as  she 
had  never  held  herself. 

"Don't  you  think  I  see  all  that,  Jack?" 

"Well,  I  only  meant  that  I,  since  coming  to  know 
her,  really  know  her,  in  Boston,  see  it  most  of  all." 

"And  you  can't  see,  too,  how  it  must  stab  me  to 
have  papa— papa— put,  through  her  trivial  words, 
into  the  category  of  black-edged  paper  ? ' ' 

Her  voice  had  now  the  note  of  tears. 

"But  she  does  n't,"  he  protested. 

"Can  you  deny  that,  for  her,  he  counts  for  little 
more  than  the  mere  question  of  convention?" 

Jack  at  this  was,  perforce,  silent.  No,  he  could  n't 
altogether  deny  it,  and  though  it  did  not  seem  to  him 
a  particularly  relevant  truth  he  could  but  own  that 
to  Imogen  it  might  well  appear  so.  He  did  not 
answer  her,  and  there  the  incident  seemed  to  end. 
But  it  left  them  both  with  the  sense  of  frustrated 
hope,  and  over  and  above  that  Jack  had  felt,  sharper 
than  ever  before,  the  old  shoot  of  weariness  for 
"papa"  as  the  touchstone  for  such  vexed  questions. 


XIII 


US.  UPTON  expressed  no  displeasure, 
although  she  could  not  control  surprise, 
when  she  was  informed  of  Imogen's 
change  of  decision,  and  Jack,  watch 
ing  her  as  usual,  felt  bound,  after  the 
little  scene  of  her  quiet  acquiescence,  to  return  with 
Imogen,  for  a  moment,  to  the  subject  of  their  dis 
pute.  Imogen  had  asked  him  to  help  her  to  see  and 
however  hopeless  he  might  feel  of  any  fundamental 
seeing  on  her  part,  he  must  n't  abandon  hope  while 
there  was  a  stone  unturned. 

' '  That  's  what  it  really  was, ' '  he  said  to  her.  ' '  You 
do  see,  don't  you?— to  respond  to  whatever  she  felt 
you  wanted. ' ' 

Imogen  stared  a  little.  "Of  what  are  you  talking, 
Jack?" 

"Of  your  mother  Antigone— the  black  edge.  It 
was  n't  the  black  edge." 

She  had  understood  in  a  moment  and  was  all 
there,  as  fully  equipped  with  forbearing  opposition 
as  ever. 

"It  was  n't  even  the  black  edge,  you  mean ?  Even 
that  homage  to  his  memory  was  unreal  ? ' ' 

"Of  course  not.  I  mean  that  she  wanted  to  do 
what  you  wanted. ' ' 

176 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  177 

"And  does  she  think,  do  you  think,  it  's  that  I 
want,— a  suave  adaptation  to  ideals  she  does  n't  even 
understand  ?  No  doubt  she  attributes  my  change  to 
girlish  vanity,  the  wish  to  shine  among  the  others. 
If  that  was  what  I  wanted,  that  would  be  what  she 
\vould  want,  too. ' ' 

"Are  n't  you  getting  away  from  the  point  a  lit 
tle?"  he  asked,  baffled  and  confused,  as  he  often  was, 
by  her  measured  decisiveness. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  on  the  point. — The 
point  is  that  she  cared  so  little  about  him— in  either 
way. ' ' 

This  was  what  he  had  foreseen  that  she  would 
think. 

"The  point  is  that  she  cares  so  much  for  you,"  he 
ventured  his  conviction,  fixing  his  eyes,  oddly  deep 
ened  with  this,  his  deepest  appeal,  upon  her. 

But  Imogen,  as  though  it  were  a  bait  thrown  out 
and  powerless  to  allure,  slid  past  it. 

' '  To  gain  things  we  must  work  for  them.  It  's  not 
by  merely  caring,  yielding,  that  one  wins  one's 
rights.  Mama  is  a  very  'sweet,  warm,  harmless' 
person ;  I  see  that  as  well  as  you  do,  Jack. ' '  So  she 
put  him  in  his  place  and  he  could  only  wonder  if  he 
had  any  right  to  feel  so  angry. 

The  preparations  for  the  new  tableau  were  at  once 
begun  and  a  few  days  after  their  last  uncomfortable 
encounter,  Jack  and  Imogen  were  again  together,  in 
happier  circumstances  it  seemed,  for  Imogen,  stand 
ing  in  the  library  while  her  mother  adjusted  her 
folds  and  draperies,  could  but  delight  a  lover's  eye. 

Mary,  also  on  view,   in   hrr  handmaiden   array,— 
12 


178  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Mary's  part  was  a  small  one  in  the  picture  of  the 
restored  Alcestis,— sat  gazing  in  admiration,  and 
Jack  walked  about  mother  and  daughter  with  sug 
gestion  and  comment. 

"It  's  perfect,  quite  perfect,"  he  declared,  "that 
warm,  soft  white ;  and  you  have  done  it  most  beauti 
fully,  Mrs.  Upton.  You  are  a  wonderful  costu- 
miere." 

"  Is  n  't  my  chlamys  a  darling  ? ' '  said  Valerie  hap 
pily  from  below,  where  she  knelt  to  turn  a  hem. 

"Mama  won't  let  us  forget  that  chlamys,"  Imo 
gen  said,  casting  a  look  of  amusement  upon  her 
mother.  "She  is  so  deliciously  vain  about  it." 
Imogen  was  feeling  a  thrill  of  confidence  and  hope. 
Jack's  eyes,  as  they  rested  upon  her,  had  shown  the 
fondest  admiration.  She  was  in  the  humor,  so  rare 
with  her  of  late,  of  gaiety  and  light  assurance.  And 
she  thirsted  for  words  of  praise  and  delight  from 
Jack. 

"No  wonder  that  she  is  vain,"  Jack  returned. 
"It  has  just  the  look  of  that  heavenly  garment  that 
blows  back  from  the  Victory  of  Samothrace.  The 
hair,  too,  with  those  fillets,  you  did  that,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  do  think  it  's  an  achievement.  It 
has  the  carven  look  that  one  wants.  Imogen's  hair 
lends  itself  wonderfully  to  those  long,  sweeping 
lines." 

But,  Jack,  once  having  expressed  his  admiration 
for  Imogen,  seemed  tactlessly  bent  on  emphasizing 
his  admiration  for  the  mere  craftswoman  of  the  oc 
casion. 

"Well,  it  's  as  if  you  had  formed  the  image  into 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  179 

which  I  'm  to  blow  the  breath  of  life.  I  'm  really 
uncertain,  yet,  as  to  the  best  attitude. ' '  Imogen  was 
listening  to  this  with  some  gravity  of  gaze.  "Do 
take  that  last  position  we  decided  upon,  Imogen. 
And  do  you,  Mary,  take  the  place  of  the  faltering 
old  (Edipus  for  a  moment.  Look  down,  Imogen ;  yes, 
a  strong,  brooding  tenderness  of  look. ' ' 

"Ah,  she  gets  it  wonderfully,"  said  Valerie,  still 
at  her  hem. 

"Not  quite  deep  or  still  enough,"  Jack  objected. 
"Stand  back,  Mary,  please,  while  we  work  at  the 
Expression.  No,  that  's  not  it  yet. ' ' 

' '  But  it  's  lovely,  so.  You  would  have  found  fault 
with  Antigone  herself,  Jack, ' '  Mrs.  Upton  protested. 

"Jack  is  quite  right,  mama,  pray  don't  laugh 
at  his  suggestions.  I  understand  perfectly  what  he 
means."  Imogen  glanced  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
with  a  grave  effort  to  assume  the  expression  de 
manded  of  her.  ' '  Is  this  better,  Jack  ? ' ' 

"Yes— no; — no,  you  can't  get  at  all  what  I 
mean,"  the  young  man  returned,  so  almost  pettishly 
that  Valerie  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  quick  flush. 

Imogen's  resentment,  if  she  felt  any,  did  not  be 
come  apparent.  She  accepted  condemnation  with 
dignified  patience. 

"  I  'm  afraid  that  is  the  best  I  can  do  now,  though 
I  '11  try.  Perhaps  on  the  day  of  the  actual  per 
formance  it  will  come  more  deeply  to  me.  There, 
mama  darling,  that  will  do;  it  's  quite  right  now. 
I  can 't  put  myself  into  it  while  you  sew  down  there. 
I  can  hardly  think  that  I  'm  brooding  over  my  tragic 
father  while  I  see  your  pins  and  needles.  Now,  Jack, 


180  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

is  this  better?"  With  perfect  composure  she  once 
more  took  the  suggested  attitude  and  expression. 

Mrs.  Upton,  her  dusky  flush  deepened,  rose,  stum 
bling  a  little  from  her  long  stooping,  and,  steadying 
herself  with  her  hand  on  a  table,  looked  at  the  new 
effort. 

"No, — it  's  worse.  It  's  complacent — self-con 
scious,"  burst  from  Jack.  "You  look  as  if  you  were 
thinking  far  more  about  your  own  brooding  than 
about  your  father.  Antigone  is  self-forgetting;  ab 
solutely  self-forgetting."  So  his  rising  irritation 
found  impulsive,  helpless  expression.  In  the  slight 
silence  that  followed  his  words  he  was  aware  of  the 
discord  that  he  had  crashed  into  an  apparent  har 
mony.  He  glanced  almost  furtively  at  Mrs.  Upton. 
Had  she  seen— did  she  guess— the  anger,  for  her, 
that  had  broken  into  these  peevish  words?  She  met 
his  eyes  with  her  penetrating  depth  of  gaze,  and 
Imogen,  turning  to  them,  saw  the  interchange;  saw 
Jack  abashed  and  humble,  not  before  her  own  for 
bearance  but  before  her  mother's  wonder  and  se 
verity. 

Resentment  had  been  in  her,  keen  and  sharp,  from 
his  first  criticism ;  nay,  from  his  first  ignoring  of  her 
claim  to  praise.  It  rose  now  to  a  flood  of  righteous 
indignation.  Sweeping  round  upon  them  in  her 
white  draperies,  casting  aside — as  in  a  flash  she  saw 
it— petty  subterfuge  and  petty  fear,  coldly,  firmly, 
she  questioned  him : 

"I  must  ask  you  whether  this  is  mere  ill-temper, 
Jack,  or  whether  you  intentionally  wish  to  wound 
me.  Pray  let  me  have  the  truth." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  181 

Speechless,  confused,  Jack  gazed  at  her. 

She  went  on,  gaining,  as  she  spoke,  her  usual  re 
lentless  fluency. 

"If  you  would  rather  that  some  one  else  did  the 
Antigone,  pray  say  so  frankly.  It  will  be  a  relief  to 
me  to  give  up  my  part.  I  am  very  tired.  I  have  a 
great  deal  to  do.  You  know  why  I  took  up  the  added 
burden.  My  motives  make  me  quite  indifferent  to 
petty,  personal  considerations.  All  that,  from  the 
first,  I  have  had  in  mind,  was  to  help,  to  the  best  of 
my  poor  ability.  Whom  would  you  rather  have? 
Rose?— Mary?— Clara  Bartlett?— Why  not  mama? 
I  will  gladly  help  any  one  of  them  with  all  that  I 
have  learnt  from  you  as  to  dress  and  pose.  But  I 
cannot,  myself,  go  on  with  the  part  if  such  malignant 
dissatisfaction  is  to  be  wreaked  upon  me." 

Jack  felt  his  head  rise  at  last  from  the  submerging 
flood. 

"But,  Imogen,  indeed,— I  do  beg  your  pardon.  It 
was  odious  of  me  to  speak  so.  No  one  can  do  the 
part  but  you." 

"Why  say  that,  Jack,  when  you  have  just  told  me 
that  I  do  it  worse  and  worse  ? ' ' 

"It  was  only  a  momentary  impression.  Really, 
I  'm  ashamed  of  myself. ' ' 

"But  it  's  your  impression  that  is  the  standard  in 
those  tableaux.  How  can  I  do  the  part  if  I  contra 
dict  your  conception?" 

"You  can't.    I  was  in  a  bad  temper." 

"And  why,  may  I  ask,  were  you  in  a  bad  temper?" 

The  gaze  from  her  serene  yet  awful  brows  was 
bent  upon  him,  but  under  it,  in  a  sudden  reaction 


182  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

from  its  very  serenity,  its  very  awfulness,  a  firm  de 
termination  rose  in  him  to  meet  it.  Turning  very 
red  but  eyeing  Imogen  very  straight:  "I  thought 
you  inconsiderate,  ungrateful,  to  your  mother,  as 
you  often  are,"  he  said. 

For  a  long  moment  Imogen  was  silent,  glancing 
presently  at  Mary — scarlet  with  dismay,  her  hastily 
adjusted  eye-glasses  in  odd  contrast  to  her  classic 
draperies — and  then  turning  her  eyes  upon  her 
mother  who,  still  standing  near  the  table,  was  frown 
ing  and  looking  down. 

"Well,  mama  dear,"  she  asked,  "what  have  you 
to  say  to  this  piece  of  information  1  Have  I,  all  un 
consciously,  been  unkind  ?  Have  I  been  ungrateful  ? 
Do  you  share  Jack's  sense  of  injury?" 

Mrs.  Upton  looked  up  as  though  from  painful  and 
puzzling  reflection.  "My  dear  Imogen,"  she  said, 
"I  think  that  you  and  Jack  are  rather  self-righteous 
young  people,  far  too  prone  to  discussing  yourselves. 
I  think  that  you  were  a  little  inconsiderate;  but 
Jack  has  no  call  to  take  up  my  defense  or  to  express 
any  opinion  as  to  our  relations.  Of  course  you  will 
do  the  Antigone,  and  of  course,  when  he  recovers  his 
temper, — and  I  believe  he  has  already, — he  will  be 
very  glad  that  you  should.  And  now  let  's  have  no 
more  of  this  foolish  affair." 

None  of  them  had  ever  heard  her  make  such  a 
measured,  and,  as  it  were,  such  a  considered  speech 
before,  and  the  unexpectedness  of  it  so  wrought 
upon  them  that  it  reduced  not  only  Jack  but  even 
the  voluble  Antigone  to  silence.  But  in  Jack's  si 
lence  was  an  odd  satisfaction,  even  an  elation.  He 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  183 

did  n't  mind  his  own  humiliation — that  of  an  offi 
cious  little  boy  put  in  a  corner— one  bit ;  for  there  in 
the  corner  opposite  was  Imogen,  actually  Imogen, 
and  the  sight  of  it  gave  him  a  shameful  pleasure. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Upton  calmly  resumed  her  work 
at  the  hem,  finished  it,  turned  her  daughter  about 
and  pronounced  it  all  quite  right. 

"Now  get  into  warmer  clothes  and  come  down  to 
tea,  which  will  be  here  directly,"  she  said. 

Imogen,  by  now,  was  recovered  from  the  torpor  of 
her  astonishment. 

"Mary,  will  you  come  with  me,  I  '11  want  your 
help."  And  then,  as  Mary,  whom  alone  she  could 
count  as  an  ally,  joined  her,  she  paused  before  de 
parture,  gathering  her  chlamys  about  her.  "If  I 
am  silent,  mama,  pray  don't  imagine  that  it  is  you 
who  have  silenced  me,"  she  said.  "I  certainly  could 
not  think  of  defending  myself  to  you.  My  character, 
with  all  its  many  faults,  speaks  for  itself  with  those 
who  understand  me  and  what  I  aim  at.  All  I  ask  of 
you,  mama,  is  not  to  imagine,  for  a  moment,  that 
you  are  one  of  those." 

So  Antigone,  white,  smiling,  wrathful,  swept  away, 
Mary  behind  her,  round-eyed  and  aghast,  and  Val 
erie  was  left  confronting  the  overwhelmed  Jack. 

He  could  find  not  one  word  to  say,  and  for  some 
moments  Valerie,  too,  stood  silent,  slipping  her 
needle  back  and  forth  in  her  fingers  and  looking 
hard  at  the  carpet. 

"It  's  all  my  fault!"  Jack  burst  out  suddenly. 
"Blundering,  silly  fool  that  I  am !  Do  say  that  you 
forgive  me." 


184  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  but,  still  slipping  her 
needle  .with  the  minute,  monotonous  gesture  back 
and  forth,  she  nodded. 

' '  But  say  it, ' '  Jack  protested.  ' '  Scold  me  as  much 
as  you  please.  It  's  all  true ;  I  'm  a  prig,  I  know. 
But  say  that  you  forgive  me." 

A  smile  quivered  on  her  cheek,  and  putting  out 
her  hand  she  answered:  "There  's  nothing  to  for 
give,  Jack.  I  lost  my  temper,  too.  And  it  's  all 
mere  nonsense. ' ' 

He  seized  her  hand,  and  then,  only  then,  realized 
from  something  in  the  quiver  of  the  smile,  something 
muffled  in  the  lightness  of  her  voice,  that  she  was 
crying. 

' '  Oh  ! "  broke  from  him ;  "  oh !  what  brutes  we 
are!" 

She  had  drawn  her  hand  from  his  in  a  moment, 
had  turned  from  him  while  she  swiftly  put  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  after  the  passage  of  the 
scudding  rain-cloud  she  confronted  him  clearly  once 
more. 

"Why,  it  's  all  my  fault,— don't  you  know,— from 
the  beginning,"  she  said. 

He  understood  her  perfectly.  She  had  never  been 
so  near  him. 

"You  know  that  's  not  true,"  he  said.  And  then, 
at  last,  his  eyes,  widely  upon  her,  told  her  on  which 
side  his  sympathies  were  enlisted  in  the  long-drawn 
contest  between, — not  between  poor  Imogen  and  her 
self,  that  was  a  mere  result— but  between  herself  and 
her  husband. 

And  that  she  understood  his  understanding  be- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  185 

came  at  once  apparent  to  him.  He  had  never  seen 
her  blush  as  she  blushed  then,  and  when  the  deep 
glow  had  passed  she  became  very  white  and  looked 
very  weary,  almost  old. 

"No,  I  don't  know  it,  Jack,"  she  said.  "And  you, 
certainly,  do  not.  And  now,  dear  Jack,  don't  let  us 
speak  of  this  any  more.  Will  you  help  me  to  clear 
this  table  for  the  tea-things." 

So  this,  for  Imogen,  was  the  result  of  her  loving  im 
pulse  during  the  frosty  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue. 
All  her  sweet,  wordless  appeals  had  been  in  vain. 
Jack  had  admired  her  as  he  might  have  admired  a 
marionette;  her  beauty  had  meant  less  to  him  than 
her  mother's  dressmaking;  and  as  she  sat  alone  in 
her  room  on  that  afternoon,  having  gently  and  firmly 
sent  Mary  down  to  tea  with  the  ominous  message 
that  she  cared  for  none,  she  saw  that  the  shadow  be 
tween  her  and  Jack  loomed  close  upon  them  now,  the 
shadow  that  would  blot  out  all  their  future,  as  a 
future  together.  And  Imogen  was  frightened,  badly 
frightened,  at  the  prospect  of  that  empty  future. 

Her  fragrant  branch  of  life  that  had  bloomed  so 
fully  and  freshly  in  her  hand,  a  scepter  and  a  fairy 
wand  of  beneficence,  had  withered  to  a  thorny 
scourge  for  her  own  shoulders.  She  looked  about 
her,  before  her.  She  realized  \vith  a  new,  a  cutting 
keenness,  that  Jack  was  very  rich  and  she  very  poor. 
The  chill  of  poverty  had  hardly  reached  her  as  yet, 
the  warm  certainty  of  its  cessation  had  wrapped  her 
round  too  closely;  but  it  reached  her  now,  and  the 
thought  of  that  poverty,  unrelieved,  perhaps,  for  all 


186  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

her  life,  the  thought  of  the  comparative  obscurity  to 
which  it  would  consign  her,  filled  her  with  a  real 
panic ;  and,  as  before,  the  worst  part  of  the  panic  was 
that  she  should  feel  it,  she,  the  scorner  of  material 
things.  Suppose,  just  suppose,  that  no  one  else  came. 
Everything  grew  gray  at  the  thought.  Charities, 
friends,  admiration,  these  were  poor  substitutes  for 
the  happy  power  and  pride  that  as  a  rich  man's 
adored  wife  would  have  been  hers.  And  the  fact 
that  had  transformed  her  blossoming  branch  into  the 
thorny  scourge  was  that  Jack's  adored  wife  she 
would  never  be.  His  humbled,  his  submissive,  his 
chastened  and  penitent  wife,— yes,  on  those  terms; 
yes,  she  could  see  it,  the  future,  like  a  sunny  garden 
which  one  could  only  reach  by  squeezing  oneself 
through  some  painfully  narrow  aperture.  The  foun 
tains,  the  flowers,  the  lawns  were  still  hers — if  she 
would  stoop  and  crawl;  and  for  Imogen  the  mere 
imagining  of  herself  in  such  a  posture  brought  a  hot 
blush  to  her  forehead.  Not  only  would  she  have 
scorned  such  means  of  reaching  the  life  of  ample 
ease  and  rich  benevolence,  but  they  were  impossible 
to  her  nature.  A  garden  that  one  must  crouch  to 
enter  was  a  prison.  Better,  far  better,  her  barren, 
dusty,  lonely  life  than  such  humiliation;  such  apos 
tasy. 

She  faced  it  all  often,  the  future,  the  panic,  dur 
ing  the  last  days  of  preparation  for  the  tableaux, 
days  during  which,  with  a  still  magnanimity,  she 
fulfilled  the  tasks  that  she  had  undertaken.  She 
would  not  throw  up  her  part  because  her  mother  and 
Jack  had  so  cruelly  injured  her ;  it  was  now  for  her 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  187 

father  and  for  the  crippled  children  alone  that  she 
did  it. 

Sitting  in  her  bedroom  with  its  many  books  and 
photographs,  the  big  framed  one  of  her  father  over 
her  bed,  she  promised  him,  her  eyes  on  his,  that  she 
would  have  strength  to  face  it  all,  for  all  her  life  if 
necessary.  "It  was  too  easy,  I  see  that  now,"  she 
whispered  to  him.  "I  had  made  no  real  sacrifices 
for  our  thing.  The  drop  of  black  blood  had  never 
yet  been  crushed  out  of  my  heart, — for  when  you 
died,  it  was  submission  that  was  asked  of  me,  not 
sacrifice.  It  was  easy,  dear,  to  give  myself  to  the 
work  we  believed  in — to  be  tired,  and  strong,  and 
glad  for  it — to  live  out  bravely  into  the  world— 
when  you  were  beside  me  and  when  all  the  means  of 
work  were  in  my  hand.  But  now  I  must  relinquish 
something  that  I  could  only  keep  by  being  false  to 
myself — to  you— to  the  right.  And  I  must  go  uphill 
—'yes,  uphill  to  the  very  end'— accepting  poverty, 
loneliness,  the  great  need  of  love,  unanswered.  But 
I  won't  falter  or  forget,  darling  father.  As  long  as 
I  live  I  will  fight  our  fight.  Even  if  the  way  is 
through  great  darkness,  I  carry  the  light  in  my 
heart." 

The  noble  pathos  of  such  soliloquies  brought  her  to 
tears,  but  the  tears,  she  felt,  were  strengthening  and 
purifying.  After  drying  them,  after  reading  some 
of  the  deeply  marked  passages  in  the  poets  that  he 
and  she,— and,  oh,  alas !  alas !  she  and  Jack,  lost  Jack 
—had  so  often  read  together,  she  would  go  down 
stairs,  descend  into  the  dusty,  thorny  arena  again, 
feeling  herself  uplifted,  feeling  a  halo  of  sorrowful 


188  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

benignity  about  her  head.  And  this  feeling  was  so 
assured  that  those  who  saw  her  at  these  moments 
were  forced,  to  some  extent,  to  share  it. 

Toward  her  mother,  toward  Jack,  she  showed  a 
gentle,  a  distant  courtesy;  to  Mary  a  heartbreak 
ing  sweetness.  Mary,  perhaps,  needed  to  have  pet 
tier  impressions  effaced,  and  certain  memories  could 
but  fade  before  Imogen's  august  head  and  unfalter 
ing  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  wrong  in  that  strange  little  scene 
of  the  Antigone,  Mary  was  convinced  that  her  in 
tention  had  been  high.  Jack  had  hurt  her  too  much ; 
that  was  it;  and,  besides,  how  could  she  know  what 
had  gone  on  behind  the  scenes,  passages  between 
mother  and  daughter  that  had  made  Imogen's  atti 
tude  inevitable.  So  Mary  argued  with  herself,  sadly 
troubled.  "Oh,  Imogen,  please  tell  me,"  she  burst 
forth  one  day,  the  day  before  the  tableaux,  when  she 
was  sitting  with  Imogen  in  the  latter 's  room;  "what 
is  it  that  makes  you  so  sad?  Why  are  you  so  dis 
pleased  with  Jack?  You  have  n't  given  him  up, 
Imogen!" 

Imogen  passed  her  hand  softly  over  Mary's  hair, 
recalling,  as  she  did  so,  that  the  gesture  was  a  fav 
orite  one  with  her  father. 

"Won't  you,  can't  you  tell  me?"  Mary  pleaded. 

"It  is  so  difficult,  dear.  Given  him  up?  No,  I 
never  do  that  with  people  I  have  cared  for;  but  he 
is  no  longer  the  Jack  I  cared  for.  He  is  changed, 
Mary." 

"He  adores  you  as  much  as  ever,— of  course  I  've 
always  known  how  he  adored  you;  it  made  me  so 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  189 

happy,  loving  you  both  as  I  do ;  and  he  still  adores 
you  I  'm  sure.  He  is  always  watching  you.  He 
changes  color  when  you  come  into  the  room." 

"He,  too,  knows  and  feels  what  ominous  destinies 
are  hanging  over  us,  Mary."  The  deeply  marked 
passages  had  been  in  Maeterlinck  that  day.  "We 
are  parted,  perhaps  forever,  because  he  sees  at  last 
that  I  will  not  stoop.  When  one  has  grown  up,  all 
one's  life,  straight,  facing  the  sunrise,  one  cannot 
bend  and  look  down. ' ' 

"You  stoop !  Why  it  's  that  that  he  would  never 
let  you  do ! " 

"No?  You  think  that,  after  the  other  day?  He 
has  stooped,  Mary,  to  other  levels.  He  breathes  a 
different  air  from  mine  now.  I  cannot  follow  him 
into  his  new  world. ' ' 

"You  mean?— you  mean? — "  Mary  faltered. 

Imogen's  clear  eyes  told  her  what  she  meant;  it 
did  not  need  the  slow  acquiescence  of  her  head  nor 
the  articulated,  "Yes,  I  mean  mama.— Poor 
mama.  A  little  person  can  make  great  sorrows, 
Mary." 

But  now  Mary's  good,  limpid  eyes,  unfaltering 
and  candid  as  a  child's,  dwelt  on  her  with  a  new 
hope.  "But,  Imogen,  it  's  just  that:  is  she  so  little? 
She  is  n't  like  you,  of  course.  She  can't  lift  and 
sustain,  as  you  can.  She  does  n't  stand  for  great 
things,  as  you  do  and  as  your  father  did.  But  1 
seem  to  feel  more  and  more  how  much  she  could  be 
to  you.— It  only  needs— more  understanding;  and, 
if  that  's  all,  I  really  believe,  Imogen  darling,  that 
you  and  Jack  will  be  all  right  again.  Perhaps," 


190  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Mary  went  on  with  a  terrible  unconsciousness,  ' '  per 
haps  he  has  come  to  understand,  already,  better  than 
you  do, — I  thought  that,  really,  the  other  day, — and 
it  's  that  that  makes  the  sense  of  division.  You  are 
at  different  places  of  understanding.  And  he  has  n't 
to  remember,  and  get  over,  all  the  mistakes,  the 
faults  in  her  past ;  and  perhaps  it  's  because  of  that 
that  he  sees  the  present  reality  more  clearly  than 
you  do.  Jack  is  such  a  wonderful  person  for  seeing 
the  real  self  of  people. ' ' 

Imogen's  steady  gaze,  during  this  speech,  con 
tinued  to  rest  unwaveringly  upon  her ;  Mary  felt  no 
warning  in  it  and,  when  she  had  done,  waited 
eagerly  for  some  echo  to  her  faith. 

But  when  Imogen  spoke,  it  was  in  a  voice  that 
revealed  to  her  her  profound  miscalculation. 

"You  do  not  understand,  Mary.  You  see  noth 
ing.  Her  present  self  is  her  past  self,  unchanged, 
unashamed,  unatoned  for.  It  is  her  mistakes,  her 
faults,  that  Jack  now  stands  for.  It  is  her  mistakes 
and  faults  that  /  must  stand  for,  if  I  am  to  be  beside 
him  again.  That  would  be  the  stooping  that  I 
meant.  I  fear  that  not  only  Jack  but  you  are 
blinded,  Mary.  I  fear  that  it  is  not  only  Jack  but 
you  that  she  is  taking  from  me."  Her  voice  was 
calm,  but  the  steely  edge  of  an  accusation  was  in  it. 

Mary  sat  aghast.  "Taking  me  from  you!  Oh, 
Imogen,  you  don't  mean  that  you  won't  care  for  me 
if  I  get  fond  of  her ! ' ' 

The  crudely  simple  interpretation  brought  the 
blood  to  Imogen's  cheeks.  "I  mean  that  you  can 
hardly  be  fond  of  us  both.  It  is  not  7  who  will 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  191 

cease  to  care."  Under  the  accusation  was  now  an 
added  note  of  pain  and  of  appeal.  All  Mary's  faiths 
rallied  to  that  appeal. 

"Imogen!"  she  said,  timidly,  like  the  wrong-doer 
she  felt  herself  to  be,  taking  the  other's  hand; 
"dear,  brave,  wonderful  Imogen,— how  can  you— 
how  can  you  say  it!  Why  there  is  hardly  any  one 
in  the  world  who  has  counted  to  me  as  you  have. 
Why,  your  mother  is  like  a  sweet  child  beside  you! 
She  has  n't  faiths;  she  has  n't  that  healing, 
strengthening  thing  that  I  've  always  so  felt  in  you. 
She  could  never  mean  what  you  do.  Oh,  Imogen! 
you  won't  think  such  dreadful  things,  will  you? 
You  do  forgive  me  if  I  have  blundered  and  hurt 
you?" 

Imogen  drew  in  the  fragrant  incense  with  long 
breaths;  it  revived  her,  filled  her  veins  with  new 
courage,  new  hope.  The  two  girls  kissed  solemnly. 
They  were  going  out  together  and  they  presently 
went  down-stairs  hand  in  hand.  But  as  an  after- 
flavor  there  lingered  for  Imogen,  like  a  faint,  flat 
bitterness  after  the  incense,  a  suspicion  that  Mary, 
in  wrafting  her  censer  with  such  energy,  had  been 
seeking  to  fill  her  own  nostrils,  also,  with  the  sacred 
old  aroma,  to  find,  as  well  as  give,  the  intoxication 
of  faith. 


XIV 

IIR  BASIL!"  Valerie  exclaimed. 

She  rose  from  the  tea-table,  where 
she  and  Jack  and  Mrs.  Wake  were  sit 
ting,  to  meet  the  unexpected  new 
comer. 

A  gladness  that  Jack  had  never  seen  in  her  seemed 
to  inundate  her  face,  her  figure,  her  outstretched 
hands ;  she  looked  young,  she  looked  almost  childlike, 
as  she  smiled  at  her  friend  over  their  clasp,  and  Jack 
saw,  by  the  light  of  that  transfiguration,  how  gray 
these  last  months  must  have  been  to  her,  how 
strangely  bereft  of  response  and  admiration,  how 
without  savor  or  sweetness.  He  saw,  and  with  the 
insight  came  a  sharp  stir  of  bitterness  against  the 
new-comer,  who  threw  them  all  like  this  into  a  dull 
background,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  real  echo  of  her 
gladness,  that  she  should  have  it. 

He  actually,  in  the  sharp,  swift  twist  of  feeling, 
hardly  remembered  Imogen's  forecasts  and  warn 
ings,  hardly  remembered  that  Mrs.  Upton's  glad 
ness  and  Sir  Basil's  beaming  gaze  put  Imogen  quite 
dreadfully  in  the  right.  He  did  not  think  of  Imogen 
at  all,  nor  of  the  desecration  of  the  house  of 
mourning  by  this  gladness,  so  absorbed  was  he  in 
watching  it,  in  sharing  it,  and  in  being  hurt  by  it, 

102 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  193 

' '  Mrs.  Wake,  of  course,  is  an  old  friend, ' '  Valerie 
said,  leading  Sir  Basil  up  to  the  tea-table ;  ' '  and  here 
is  a  new  one— Jack  Pennington,  whom  you  must 
quite  know  already,  I  've  written  so  much  about  him. 
Sit  down  here.  Tell  me  all  about  everything.  Why 
this  sudden  appearance?  Why  no  hint  of  it?  Is  it 
meant  as  a  surprise  for  us  ? " 

"Well,  Frances  and  Tom  were  coming  over,  you 
knew  that — " 

' '  Of  course.  I  wrote  Frances  a  steamer  letter  the 
day  before  yesterday.  You  got  in  this  morning  with 
them  then?  They  said  not  a  word  of  your  coming 
when  I  last  heard  from  them. ' ' 

"I  only  decided  to  join  them  at  the  last  minute.  I 
thought  that  it  would  be  good  fun  to  drop  upon  you 
like  this,  so  I  did  n't  write.  It  is  good  to  see  you 
again."  Sir  Basil,  while  his  beam  seemed  to  include 
the  room  and  its  inmates,  included  them  unseeingly ; 
he  had  eyes,  it  was  evident,  only  for  her.  He  went 
on  to  give  her  messages  from  the  Pakenhams,  in 
New  York  but  for  a  week  on  their  way  to  Canada 
and  eager  to  see  her  at  once.  They  would  have  come 
with  him  had  they  not  been  rather  knocked  up  by 
the  early  rise  on  the  steamer  and  by  the  long  wait 
at  the  custom-house. 

"You  must  all  come  with  me  to-morrow  to  our 
tableaux,"  said  Valerie.  "Imogen  is  in  them.  She 
is  out  this  afternoon,  so  you  will  see  her  for  the  first 
time  at  her  loveliest.  She  is  to  be  Antigone." 

"Oh,  so  I  sha'n't  see  her  till  to-morrow.  I  Ve  al 
ways  been  a  bit  afraid  of  Miss  Upton,  you  know," 
said  Sir  Basil,  with  a  smile  at  Jack. 

13 


194  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Well,  the  first  impression  will  be  a  reassuring 
one,"  said  Valerie.  "Antigone  is  the  least  alarm 
ing  of  heroines." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Sir  Basil  objected, 
folding  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  "A  bit  grue 
some,  don 't  you  think  ? ' ' 

' '  Gruesome  1 ' ' 

' '  She  stuck  so  to  her  own  ideas,  did  n  't  she  1  Aw 
fully  rough  on  the  poor  fellow  who  wanted  to  marry 
her,  insisting  like  that  on  burying  her  brothers." 

Valerie  laughed.  "Well,  but  that  sense  of  duty  is 
hardly  gruesome ;  it  would  have  been  horridly  grue 
some  to  have  left  her  brothers  unburied. " 

"You  '11  worst  me  in  an  argument,  of  course," 
Sir  Basil  replied,  looking  fondly  at  her;  "but  I 
maintain  that  she  's  a  dreary  young  lady.  Of  course 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  she  was  n't  an  exceedingly 
good  girl,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  a  bit  of  a 
prig,  you  must  allow." 

Jack  listened  to  the  bantering  colloquy.  This 
man,  so  hard,  yet  so  kindly,  so  innocent,  yet  so 
mature,  was  making  him  feel  by  every  tone,  gesture, 
glance,  oddly  boyish  and  unformed.  He  was  quite 
sure  that  he  himself  was  a  great  deal  cleverer,  a 
great  deal  more  conscious,  than  Sir  Basil ;  but  these 
advantages  somehow  assumed  the  aspect  of  school 
boy  badges  of  good  conduct  beside  a  grown-up  stand 
ard.  And,  as  he  listened,  he  began  to  understand 
far  more  deeply  all  sorts  of  things  about  Valerie;  to 
see  what  vacancies  she  had  had  to  put  up  with,  to 
see  what  fullness  she  must  have  missed.  And  he 
began  to  understand  what  Imogen,  Cassandra-like, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  195 

had  declared,  that  the  unseasonable  fragrance  of 
devotions  hovered  about  her  widowed  mother ;  to  re 
member  the  ominous  ' '  Wait  and  see. ' ' 

It  showed  how  far  he  had  traveled  when  he  could 
recall  these  words  with  impatience ;  could  answer 
them  with:  "Well,  what  of  it?  Does  n't  she  deserve 
some  compensation?"— could  quietly  place  Sir  Basil 
as  a  no  longer  hopeless  adorer  and  feel  a  thrill  of 
satisfaction  in  the  realization.  Yes,  sitting  here 
here  in  the  house  of  mourning  he  could  think  these 
things. 

But  if  he  was  so  wide,  so  tolerant,  the  very  expan 
sion  of  his  sympathies  brought  them  a  finer  sensitive 
ness.  Only  a  tendril-like  fineness  could  penetrate 
the  complexities  of  that  deeper  vision.  He  began  to 
think  of  Imogen,  and  with  a  new  pity,  a  new  ten 
derness.  How  she  would  be  hurt,  and  how,  more 
than  all,  she  would  be  hurt  by  seeing  that  he,  while 
understanding,  while  sympathizing,  should,  help 
lessly,  inevitably,  be  glad  that  Sir  Basil  had  come. 
Poor  Imogen,— and  poor  himself;  for  where  did  he 
stand  among  all  these  shiftings  of  the  scene?  He, 
too,  knew  the  drifting  loneliness  and  desolation,  and 
though  his  heart  ached  for  the  old  nearness  he  could 
not  put  out  his  hand  to  her  nor  take  a  step  toward 
her.  In  himself,  in  her,  was  the  change,  or  the  mere 
fate,  that  held  them  parted.  The  wrench  had  come 
slowly  upon  them,  but,  while  he  ached  with  the  pain 
of  it,  he  could  already  look  upon  it  as  accomplished. 
Only  one  question  remained  to  be  asked:— Would 
nothing,  no  change,  no  fate,  draw  them  again  to 
gether  ? 


196  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

For  all  answer  a  deep,  settled  sadness  descended 
upon  him. 

Sir  Basil  took  himself  off  before  Mrs.  Wake 
seemed  to  think  it  tactful  to  depart,  and  since,  soon 
after,  she  too  went,  Jack  and  Valerie  were  left  alone 
together. 

She  turned  her  bright,  soft  eyes  upon  the  young 
man  and  he  recognized  in  them  the  unseeing  quality 
that  he  had  found  in  Sir  Basil 's— that  happy  preoccu 
pation  with  inner  gladness.  She  made  him  think  of 
the  bird  alighted  to  sing  on  the  swaying  blade ;  and 
she  made  him  think  of  a  fountain  released  from 
winter  and  springing  through  sunlight  in  a  murmur 
and  sparkle  of  ecstasy.  She  was  young,  very  young; 
he  almost  felt  her  as  young  in  her  gladness  as  he 
in  his  loneliness  and  pain.  Smiling  a  trifle  nerv 
ously,  he  said  that  he  was  glad,  at  last,  to  see  some 
thing  of  her  old  life.  ' '  Of  your  real  life, ' '  he  added. 

"My  real  life?"  she  repeated,  and  her  look  became 
more  aware  of  him. 

"Yes.  Of  course,  in  a  sense,  all  this  is  something 
outlived,  cast  aside,  for  you.  You  've  only  taken  it 
up  for  a  bit  while  you  felt  that  it  had  a  claim  upon 
you;  but,  once  you  have  settled  things,  you  would,— 
you  would  leave  us,  of  course,"  said  Jack,  still  smil 
ing. 

She  was  thinking  of  him  now,  no  longer  of  herself 
and  of  Sir  Basil,  and  perhaps,  as  she  looked  at  him, 
at  the  thin  brown  face,  the  light,  deep  eyes,  she 
guessed  at  a  stir  of  tears  under  th«  smile.  It  was 
then  as  if  the  fountain  sank  from  its  own  happy 
solitude  and  became  a  running  brook  of  sweetness, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  197 

sad,  yet  merry.  She  did  n't  contradict  him.  She 
was  sorry  that  she  could  n't,  yet  glad  that  his  state 
ment  should  be  so  obviously  true 

"You  mean  that  I  '11  go  back  to  my  little  Surrey 
cottage,  when  I  settle  things  ? ' '  she  said.  ' '  Perhaps, 
yes.  And  you  will  miss  me?  I  will  miss  you  too, 
dear  Jack.  But  we  will  often  see  each  other.  And 
then  it  may  take  a  long  time  to  settle  all  you  young 
people." 

Her  confidence  so  startled  him,  so  touched  him 
with  pity  for  its  blindness,  that,  swiftly,  he  took 
refuge  in  ambiguity. 

"Oh,  you  '11  settle  us!"  he  said,  wondering  in 
what  that  settling  would  consist,  wondering  what 
would  happen  if  Imogen,  definitely  casting  him  off, 
to  put  the  final  settling  in  that  form,  were  left  on 
her  mother 's  hands.  She  would  have  to  settle  Imogen 
in  America  and  what,  in  the  meanwhile,  would  be 
come  of  her  "real"  life? 

But  from  the  mother's  confidence,  her  radiance, 
that  accepted  his  speech  in  its  happiest  meaning,  he 
guessed  that  she  did  n't  foresee  such  a  contingency; 
he  even  guessed  that,  were  she  brought  face  to  face 
with  it,  she  would  n't  accept  its  unsettling  of  her 
own  joy  as  final.  The  fountain  was  too  strong  to 
heed  such  obstacles.  It  would  find  its  way  to  the 
sunlight.  Imogen,  in  time,  would  have  to  accept  a 
step-father. 


XV 


A.CK  did  not  witness  the  revelation  to 
Imogen  of  the  ominous  arrival,  but 
from  her  demeanor  at  lunch  next  day 
he  could  guess  at  how  it  had  impressed 
her.  He  felt  in  her  an  intense,  a 
guarded,  excitement,  and  knew  that  the  news  had 
fallen  upon  her  with  a  tingling  concussion.  The 
sound  of  the  thunder-bolt  must  reverberate  all  the 
louder  in  Imogen's  ears  from  her  consciousness  that 
to  Mary's  it  was  soundless,  Mary,  who  had  been  the 
only  spectator  of  its  falling.  Her  mother,  too,  was 
unconscious  of  such  reverberations,  so  that  it  must 
seem  to  her  a  ghost-like  subjective  warning,  putting 
into  audible  form  all  her  old  hauntings. 

That  she  at  once  sought  in  him  evidences  of  the 
same  experience,  Jack  felt,  and  all  through  the  early 
lunch,  where  they  assembled  prior  to  his  departure 
with  the  two  girls  for  the  theater,  he  avoided  meet 
ing  Imogen's  eyes.  He  was  too  sure  that  she  felt 
their  mutual  knowledge  as  a  bond  over  the  recent 
chasm.  The  knowledge  in  his  own  eyes  was  far  too 
deep  for  him  to  allow  her  to  wade  into  it ;  she  would 
simply  drown.  He  was  rather  ashamed  of  himself, 
but  he  resolutely  feigned  a  cheerful  unconsciousness. 

108 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  199 

"You  are  going  with  your  friends,  later?"  he 
asked  Valerie,  who,  he  was  quite  sure,  also  feigning 
something,  said  that  since  Imogen  and  Mary  dressed 
each  other  so  well,  and  since  he  would  be  there  to 
see  that  every  detail  was  right,  she,  with  the  Paken- 
hams  and  Sir  Basil,  would  get  her  impression  from 
the  stalls.  Afterward,  they  would  all  meet  here  for 
tea. 

"It  was  a  surprise,  you  know,  their  coming," 
Imogen  put  in  suddenly,  from  her  end  of  the  table, 
fixing  strangely  sparkling  eyes  upon  Jack. 

"No,"  said  her  mother,  in  tones  of  leisurely  cor 
rection,  ' '  I  expected  the  Pakenhams,  as  I  told  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes;  it  was  only  Sir  Basil's  surprise.  You 
did  n't  expect  him.  Does  he  like  playing  surprises 
on  people,  mama?" 

"I  don't  know  that  he  does." 

"He  only  plays  them  on  you." 

' '  I  knew  that  he  was  coming,  at  some  time. ' ' 

' '  Ah,  but  you  did  n  't  tell  me  that ;  it  was,  in  the 
main,  my  surprise,  then  ;  but  not  so  soon,  I  suppose." 

"So  soon?     So  soon  for  what?" 

Imogen,  at  this,  allowed  her  badly  adjusted  mask 
of  lightness  to  fall  and  a  sudden  solemnity  over 
spread  her  features. 

"Don't  you  feel  it  rather  soon  for  friends  to  play 
pranks,  mama?" 

The  words  seemed  to  erect  a  catafalque  before  their 
eyes,  but,  facing  the  nodding  blackness  with  a  calm 
in  which  Jack  detected  the  glint  of  steel,  Valerie  an 
swered  :  "I  am  not  aware  that  they  have  been  play 
ing  pranks." 


200  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

For  all  the  way  to  the  theater  Imogen  again  as 
sumed  the  mask,  talking  exclusively  to  Mary.  She 
talked  of  these  friends  of  her  mother's,  of  Sir  Basil, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pakenham,  what  she  had  heard  of 
them;  holding  up,  as  if  for  poor,  frightened  Mary's 
delectation,  an  impartial  gaily  sketched  little  portrait 
of  their  oddities.  It  was  as  if  she  felt  it  her  duty  to 
atone  to  Mary  by  her  lightness  and  gaiety  for  the 
gloom  that  had  oversp read  the  lunch  ;  as  if  she  wished 
to  assure  Mary  that  she  would  n  't  allow  her  to  suffer 
for  other  people's  ill-temper, — Mrs.  Upton  had  cer 
tainly  been  very  silent  for  the  rest  of  that  uncom 
fortable  meal, — as  if  it  were  for  Mary's  sake  that  she 
were  assuming  the  mask,  behind  which,  as  Jack  must 
know,  she  was  in  torture. 

"I  'm  glad  you  're  to  see  them,  Mary  darling; 
they  will  amuse  you.  From  your  standpoint  of 
reality,  the  standpoint  of  Puritan  civilization — the 
deepest  civilization  the  world  has  yet  produced ;  the 
civilization  that  judges  by  the  soul— you  will  be  able 
to  judge  and  place  them  as  few  of  our  people  are,  as 
yet,  developed  enough  to  do.  They  are  of  that  funny 
English  type,  Mary,  the  leisured ;  their  business  in 
life  that  of  pleasure  seeking ;  their  social  service  con 
sisting  in  benevolent  domination  over  the  servile 
classes  beneath  them.  Oh,  they  have  their  political 
business,  too;  we  must  n't  be  unfair;  though  that 
consists,  in  the  main,  for  people  of  their  type,  in 
maintaining  their  own  place  as  donors  and  in  keep 
ing  other  people  in  the  place  of  recipients.  In  their 
own  eyes,  I  'm  quite  sure,  they  are  useful,  as  uphold 
ing  the  structure  of  English  civilization.  You  '11 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  201 

find  them  absolutely  simple,  absolutely  self-assured, 
absolutely  indifferent,  quite  charming, — there  's  no 
reason  why  they  should  n  't  be ;  but  their  good  man 
ners  are  for  themselves,  not  for  you, — one  must 
never  forget  that  with  the  English.  Do  study  them, 
Mary.  We  need  to  keep  the  fact  of  them  clearly  be 
fore  us,  for  what  they  represent  is  a  menace  to  us 
and  to  what  we  mean.  I  sometimes  think  that  the 
future  of  the  world'  depends  upon  which  ideal  is  to 
win,  ours  or  the  English.  We  must  arm  ourselves 
with  complete  comprehension.  Already  they  have 
infected  the  cruder  types  among  us." 

These  were  all  sentiments  that  in  the  past,  Mary 
felt  sure.  Jack  must  have  acquiesced  in  and  ap 
proved  of,  and  yet  she  felt  surer  that  Imogen's 
manner  of  enunciating  them  was  making  Jack  very 
angry.  She  herself  did  not  find  them  as  inspiring 
as  she  might  have  expected,  and  looking  very  much 
frightened  and  flurried  she  murmured  that  as  she 
was  to  go  back  to  Boston  next  day  she  would  not 
have  much  opportunity  for  all  this  observation.  ' '  Be 
sides—I  don't  believe  that  I  'm  so— so  wise— so 
civilized,  you  know,  as  to  be  able  to  see  it  all. ' ' 

"Oh,  Imogen  will  tell  you  what  to  see !"  said  Jack. 

"It  's  very  kind  of  her,  I  'm  sure,"  poor  Mary 
faltered.  She  could  have  burst  into  tears.  These 
two !— these  beloved  two ! 

Meanwhile,  at  a  little  later  hour,  Valerie  and  Mrs. 
Wake  made  their  way  to  the  theater,  there  to  meet 
the  group  of  friends  from  whom  they  had  parted  in 
England  six  months  before. 

The  Pakenhams,  full  of  question  and  comment, 


202  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

were  intelligently  amassing  well-assorted  impressions 
of  the  country  that  was  new  to  them.  Sir  Basil, 
though  cheerfully  pleased  with  all  to  which  his  at 
tention  was  drawn,  showed  no  particular  interest  in 
his  surroundings.  His  concentration  was  entirely 
for  his  regained  friend. 

After  her  welcoming  radiance  of  the  day  before, 
Valerie  looked  pale  and  weary,  and  when,  with  solici 
tude,  he  asked  her  whether  she  were  not  tired,  she 
confessed  to  having  slept  badly. 

"She  's  changed,  you  know,"  Sir  Basil  said  to 
Mrs.  Pakenham,  when  they  were  settled  in  their 
seats,  and  Valerie,  beside  him,  was  engaged  in  point 
ing  out  people  to  Tom  Pakenham.  "It  's  been  fright 
fully  hard  on  her,  all  this,  I  'm  sure. ' ' 

"She  's  as  charming  as  ever,"  said  Mrs.  Paken 
ham. 

"Oh,  well,  that  could  never  change.  But  what  a 
shame  that  she  should  have  had,  all  along,  such  a  lot 
to  go  through."  Sir  Basil,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
had  the  deepest  antipathy  for  the  late  Mr.  Upton. 

The  tableaux  struck  at  once  the  note  of  success. 
Saved  by  Jack's  skill  from  any  hint  of  waxwork  or 
pantomime,  their  subtle  color  and  tranquil  light 
made  each  picture  a  vision  of  past  time,  an  evocation 
of  Hellenic  beauty  and  dignity. 

Cassandra  in  her  car— her  face  (oh,  artful  Jack!) 
turned  away, — awful  before  the  door  of  Agamem 
non  ;  Iphigenia,  sleeping,  on  her  way  to  the  sacrifice ; 
Helen,  before  her  husband  and  Hecuba;  Alcestis, re 
turning  from  the  grave,  and  Deianira  with  the  robe. 
The  old  world  of  beauty  and  sorrow,  austere  and 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  203 

lovely  in  its  doom,  passed  before  modern  eyes  against 
its  background  of  sky,  grove,  and  palace  steps. 

"And  now,"  said  Valerie,  when  the  lights  sprang 
out  for  the  interval,  "now  for  your  introduction  to 
Imogen.  They  have  made  her  the  climax,  you  see. ' ' 

"He  did,  you  mean.    The  young  man." 

''Yes,  Jack  arranged  it  all." 

"He  's  the  one  you  wrote  of,  of  course,  who  ad 
mires  her  so  tremendously. ' ' 

"He  is  the  one." 

"In  fact  he  '11  carry  her  off  from  you  some  day, 
soon,  eh?"  Sir  Basil  ventured  with  satisfaction  in 
his  own  assurance.  He,  too,  felt  that  Imogen  must 
be  "settled." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Valerie.  "I  could  n't  trust 
her  to  any  one  more  happily.  He  understands  her 
and  cares  for  her  absolutely." 

Sir  Basil  at  this  ventured  a  little  further,  voicing 
both  satisfaction  and  anxiety  with : ' '  So,  then,  you  '11 
come  back— to— to  Surrey." 

"Yes,  then,  I  think,  I  can  come  back  to  Surrey," 
Valerie  replied. 

The  heart  of  her  feeling  had  always  remained  for 
him  a  mystery,  and  her  acquiescence  now  might  mean 
a  great  deal,  everything,  in  fact,  or  it  might  mean 
only  her  gliding  composure  before  a  situation  that 
she  had  power  to  form  as  she  would.  He  could  ob 
serve  that  her  color  rose.  He  knew  that  she  blushed 
easily.  He  knew,  too,  that  his  own  feeling  was  not 
hidden  from  her  and  that  the  blush  might  be 
for  her  recognition  only;  yet  he  was  occupied  with 
the  most  hopeful  interpretations  when  the  curtain 


204  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

rose.  A  moment  after  its  rising  Valerie  heard  him 
softly  ejaculate,  "I  say!"  She  could  have  echoed 
the  helplessly  rudimentary  phrase.  She,  too,  gazed, 
in  a  stupor  of  delight ;  a  primitive  emotion  in  it. 
The  white  creature  standing  there  before  them,  with 
her  forward  poise,  her  downcast  yet  upgazing  face, 
was  her  child.  Valerie,  since  her  return  to  her  home, 
had  given  little  time  to  analysis  of  her  own  feeling, 
the  stress  of  her  situation  had  been  too  intense  for 
leisurely  self -observation.  But  in  the  up  welling  of 
a  strange,  a  selfless,  joy  she  knew,  now,  how  often 
she  had  feared  that  all  the  joy  of  maternity  was 
dead  in  her ;  killed,  killed  by  Imogen. 

The  joy  now  was  a  passing  ray.  The  happy  con 
fusion  of  admiration,  wonder,  and  pride  was  blotted 
out  by  the  falling  gloom  of  reality.  It  was  her  child 
who  stood  there,  but  the  bond  between  them  seemed, 
but  for  the  ache  of  rejected  maternity  at  her  heart, 
a  pictorial  one  merely.  Tears  of  bitterness  involun 
tarily  filled  her  eyes  as  she  looked,  and  Imogen's 
form  seemed  to  waver  in  a  dim,  an  alien  atmosphere. 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  Antigone  who  kept 
her  pose  without  a  tremor,  the  uproar  of  applause 
was  so  great  that  it  had  to  rise,  not  only  twice,  but 
three  times.  At  the  last,  a  faint  wavering  shook 
slightly  the  Antigone's  sculptured  stillness  and  poor 
old  CEdipus  rocked  obviously  upon  his  feet. 

"What  a  shame  to  make  her  keep  it  up  for  so 
long!"  murmured  Sir  Basil,  his  face  suffused  with 
sympathy.  The  symptom  of  human  weakness  was  a 
final  touch  to  the  enchantment. 

' '  Well,  it  makes  one  selfish,  such  loveliness ! ' '  said 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  205 

Mrs.  Pakenham,  flushed  with  her  clapping.  ' '  Valerie, 
dear,  she  is  quite  too  lovely ! ' ' 

''Extraordinarily  Greek,  the  whole  thing,"  said 
Tom  Pakenham;  "the  comparative  insignificance  of 
facial  expression  and  the  immense  significance  of  at 
titude  and  outline. ' ' 

"But  the  face!"  Sir  Basil  turned  an  unseeing 
eye  upon  him,  still  wrapped,  it  was  evident,  in  the 
vision  that,  at  last,  had  disappeared.  ' '  The  figure  is 
perfect;  but  the  face, — I  never  saw  anything  so 
heavenly." 

Indeed,  in  its  slightly  downcast  pose,  the  trivial 
lines  of  Imogen's  nose  and  chin  had  been  lost;  the 
up-gazing  eyes,  the  sweep  of  brow  and  hair,  had 
dominated  and  transfigured  her  somewhat  tamely 
perfect  countenance. 

"Do  you  know,  I  'm  more  afraid  of  her  than 
ever,"  said  Sir  Basil  to  Valerie  on  their  way  home 
to  tea,  in  the  cab.  "I  was  n't  really  afraid  before.  I 
could  have  borne  up  very  well;  but  now— it  's  like 
knowing  that  one  is  to  have  tea  with  a  seraph. ' ' 

Jack,  Imogen,  and  Mary  were  not  yet  arrived 
when  they  reached  the  house;  but  by  the  time  the 
tea  was  on  the  table  and  Valerie  in  her  place  behind 
the  urn,  they  heard  the  cab  drive  up  and  the  feet  of 
the  young  people  on  the  stairs. 

Jack  entered  alone,  saying  that  Mary  and  Imogen 
were  gone  to  take  off  their  wraps.  Yes,  he  assured 
Valerie,  they  had  promised  to  keep  on  their  Grecian 
robes  for  tea. 

Valerie  introduced  him  to  the  Pakenhams  and  led 
the  congratulations  on  his  triumph.  "For  it  really 


206  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

is  yours,  Jack,  as  much  as  if  you  had  painted  the 
whole  series  of  pictures." 

Jack,  looking  shy,  turned  from  one  to  the  other 
as  they  seconded  her  enthusiasm,— Mrs.  Pakenham, 
with  her  elaborately  formal  head  and  china-blue 
eyes ;  her  husband,  robust  and  heavy ;  Sir  Basil,  still 
with  his  benignant,  unseeing  quality.  Among  them 
all,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Wake's  keen,  familiar  visage,  in 
spite  of  Valerie 's  soft  glow,  he  felt  himself  a  stranger. 
He  even  felt,  with  a  little  stab  of  ill-temper,  that 
there  had  been  truth  in  Imogen's  diagnosis.  They 
were  kindly,  but  they  were  tremendously  indifferent. 
They  did  n't  at  all  expect  you  to  be  interested  in 
them;  but  that  hardly  atoned  for  the  fact  that  they 
were  n't  interested  in  you.  For  Jack,  life  was  made 
up  of  vigilant,  unceasing  interest,  in  himself  and  in 
everybody  else. 

"Ah,  were  they  all  taken  from  your  pictures?" 
Sir  Basil  asked  him,  strolling  up  to  the  mantel 
piece  to  examine  a  photograph  of  Imogen  that  stood 
there. 

Jack  explained  that  he  could  claim  no  such  gallery 
of  achievement.  He  had  made  a  few  sketches  for 
each  tableau ;  his  work  had  been,  in  the  main,  that  of 
stage-manager. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Sir  Basil,  not  at  all  abashed  by 
his  blunder.  "Nicer  than  lay  figures  to  work  with, 
eh  ?  all  those  pretty  young  women. " 

"I  don't  use  lay  figures,  at  any  time.  I  'm  a  land 
scape  painter,"  Jack  explained,  somewhat  stiffly.  He 
surmised  that  had  he  been  introduced  as  Velasquez 
Sir  Basil  would  have  been  quite  as  unmoved,  just  as 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  207 

he  would  have  been  quite  as  genially  inclined  had  he 
been  introduced  as  a  scene-painter. 

"I  used  to  think  I  'd  go  in  for  something  of  that 
sort  in  my  young  days,"  said  Sir  Basil,  holding 
Imogen 's  photograph ; ' '  and  I  dabbled  a  bit  in  water- 
color  for  a  time.  Do  you  remember  that  little  sketch 
of  the  Hall,  done  from  the  beech  avenue,  Mrs.  Upton  ? 
Not  so  bad,  was  it  ? " 

"Not  at  all  bad,"  said  Valerie;  "but  we  can't  use 
such  negatives  for  Jack's  work.  It  's  very  seriously 
good,  you  know.  It  's  anything  but  dabbling." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know  that  you  are  a  real  artist,"  Sir 
Basil  smiled  at  Jack  from  the  photograph.  "This 
does  n't  do  her  justice,  does  it?" 

' '  Imogen  ?  No ;  it  's  a  frightful  thing, ' '  said  Jack 
over-emphatically. 

Mrs.  Pakenham  asked  to  see  it  and  pronounced 
that,  for  her  part,  she  thought  it  excellent. 

"You  ought  to  paint  her  portrait,"  Sir  Basil  con 
tinued,  looking  at  Jack,  who  had,  once  more,  to  ex 
plain  that  landscape  was  his  only  subject.  He 
guessed  from  the  something  at  once  benign  and 
faintly  quizzical  in  Sir  Basil's  regard,  that  to  all 
these  people  he  was  significant,  in  the  main,  as 
Imogen's  lover,  and  the  intuition  vexed  him  still 
further. 

Imogen's  entrance,  startling  in  its  splendid  incon 
gruity,  put  an  end  to  his  self-consciousness  and  ab 
sorbed  him  in  contemplation. 

Imogen  revealed  herself  newly,  even  to  him,  to-day, 
It  was  n  't  the  old  Imogen  of  stateliness,  graciousness, 
placidity,  nor  the  later  one  of  gloom  and  anger.  This 


208  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Imogen,  lovely,  with  her  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes,  was  deeply  excited,  deeply  self -forgetful.  She, 
too,  was  absorbed  in  her  intense  curiosity,  her  fever 
ish  watchfulness. 

She  said  nothing  while  her  mother  introduced  her 
to  the  new-comers,  who  all  looked  a  little  taken  aback, 
as  though  the  resuscitated  Grecian  heroine  were  in 
deed  among  them,  and  stood  silently  alert  near  the 
tea-table,  handing  the  cups  of  tea,  the  cakes  and 
scones,  for  Jack  and  Sir  Basil  to  pass  round.  Her  arms 
were  bare  and  her  slender  bare  feet,  laced  with  gold- 
clasped  fastenings,  showed  on  her  white  sandals. 
Jack  saw  that  Sir  Basil 's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  with 
an  expression  of  wonder. 

He  asked  her,  as  he  took  the  last  cup  from  her, 
if  she  were  not  cold,  and,  gentle,  though  unsmiling, 
Imogen  replied,  "Oh,  no!"  glancing  at  the  roaring 
wood  fire,  that  illuminated  her  whiteness  as  if  with 
a  sacrificial  glow. 

"Do  sit  down  and  have  your  tea,  Imogen;  you 
must  be  very  tired,"  her  mother  said,  with  some 
thing  of  the  chill  that  the  scene  at  the  lunch-table 
had  diffused  still  in  her  voice. 

"Not  very,  thanks,  mama  dear,"  said  Imogen; 
and,  more  incongruous  in  loveliness  than  before,  she 
sat  down  in  a  high-backed  chair  at  some  little  dis 
tance  from  the  tea-table.  Sir  Basil,  as  if  with  a  sort 
of  helplessness,  remained  beside  her. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  great  success,  was  n't  it?"  Jack 
heard  her  replying  presently,  while  she  drank  the 
tea  with  which  Sir  Basil  had  eagerly  supplied  her. 
"I  'm  so  glad." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  209 

"You  liked  doing  it,  did  n't  you?  You  could  n't 
have  done  it,  like  that— looked  like  that,  if  you 
had  n't  cared  a  lot  about  it,"  Sir  Basil  pursued. 

Imogen  smiled  a  little  and  said  that  she  did  n't 
know  that  she  had  liked  doing  her  part  particularly, — 
it  was  of  her  crippled  children  that  she  was  thinking. 
"We  '11  be  able  to  get  the  Home  now,"  she  said. 

' '  It  was  for  cripple  children  ? ' ' 

"Did  n't  you  know?  I  should  have  thought 
mama  would  have  told  you.  Yes,  it  all  meant  that, 
only  that,  to  me.  We  gave  the  tableaux  to  get 
enough  money  to  buy  a  country  home  for  them. ' ' 

' '  You  go  in  a  lot  for  good  works,  I  know, ' '  said  Sir 
Basil,  and  Imogen,  smiling  again,  with  the  lightness 
rooted  in  excitement,  answered :  ' '  They  go  in  for  me, 
rather.  All  the  appeals  of  suffering  seem  to  come  to 
one  and  seize  one,  don't  they?  One  never  needs  to 
seek  causes. ' ' 

Jack  watched  them  talk,  Imogen,  the  daughter  of 
the  dead,  rejected  husband,  and  Sir  Basil,  her 
mother 's  suitor. 

Mary  had  come  in  now,  late  from  changing  her 
dress,  which  at  the  last  moment  she  had  felt  too  shy 
to  appear  in.  She  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Wake  and  the 
Pakenhams. 

Standing,  a  somewhat  brooding  onlooker,  becoming 
conscious,  indeed,  of  the  sense,  stronger  than  ever,  of 
loneliness  and  bereavement,  he  heard  Mrs.  Upton 
near  him  say,  "Sit  down  here,  Jack." 

She  showed  him  a  chair  beside  her,  in  the  corner, 
between  her  tea-table,  the  window,  and  the  fire.  She, 
too,  was  for  the  moment  isolated ;  she,  too,  no  doubt, 

14 


210  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

had  been  watching;  and  now  she  talked  to  him,  not 
at  all  as  if  she  had  felt  that  he  were  lonely  and  were 
making  it  up  to  him,  but,  once  more,  like  the  child 
happily  gathering  and  holding  out  nosegays  to  an 
other  child. 

A  controlled  excitement  was  in  her,  too;  and  he 
felt  still  that  slight  strain  of  the  lunch-table,  as  if 
Imogen's  catafalque  had  marred  some  too-trustful 
assurance;  but  a  growing  warmth  was  diffused 
through  it,  and,  as  her  eyes  turned  once  or  twice  on 
Imogen  and  Sir  Basil,  he  saw  the  cause. 

The  possibility  that  her  daughter  might  make 
friends  with  her  suitor,  the  solvent,  soothing  possi 
bility  that,  if  realized,  would  so  smooth  her  path, 
had  come  to  her.  And  in  their  quiet  fire-lit  corner, 
shut  the  closer  into  their  isolation  by  the  talk  that 
made  only  a  confused  murmur  about  them,  he  felt 
a  new  frankness  in  her,  as  though  the  hope  of  the 
hour  effaced  ominous  memories  and  melted  her  reserves 
and  discretions,  making  it  wholly  natural  to  draw 
near  him  in  the  implied  avowal  of  shared  outlooks. 

' '  I  believe  that  Imogen  and  Sir  Basil  are  going  to 
get  on  together, ' '  she  said ;  "  I  believe  that  she  likes 
him  already.  I  so  want  them  to  be  friends.  He  is 
such  a  friend  of  mine." 

"They  look  friendly,"  said  Jack;  "I  think  I  can 
always  tell  when  Imogen  is  going  to  like  people." 
He  did  not  add  that,  with  his  new  insight  about 
Imogen,  he  had  observed  that  it  was  people  over 
whom  she  had  power  that  Imogen  liked.  And  al 
ready  he  seemed  to  see  that  Imogen  would  have 
some  sort  of  power  over  Sir  Basil. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  211 

"And  I  can  always  tell  when  he  is  going  to  like 
people.  He  thinks  her  wonderful,"  said  Valerie. 
She  exchanged  her  knowledge  with  him;  it  was 
touching,  the  way  in  which,  blind  to  deep  change  in 
him,  she  took  for  granted  his  greater  claim  to  the 
interpretation  of  Imogen.  She  added :  "  It  is  a  very 
propitious  beginning,  I  think. ' ' 

"How  long  is  Sir  Basil  going  to  stay  here?"  Jack 
asked. 

"All  summer.  He  goes  to  Canada  with  the  Paken- 
hams,  and  out  to  the  West,  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
changes  since  he  was  here  years  and  years  ago;  and 
then  I  want  him  to  come  to  Vermont,  to  us.  You  and 
Imogen  will  both  get  to  know  him  well  there.  Of 
course  you  are  coming;  Imogen  told  me  that  she 
asked  you  long  ago." 

"Yes;  I  shall  enjoy  that  immensely,"  the  young 
man  answered,  with,  for  his  own  consciousness,  » 
touch  of  irrepressible  gloom.  He  did  n't  look  for; 
ward  to  the  continuation  of  the  drama,  to  his  own 
lame  and  merely  negative  part  in  it,  at  the  close 
quarters  of  a  house-party  among  the  Vermont  hills. 

And  as  if  Valerie  had  felt  the  inner  doubt  she 
added  suddenly,  on  a  different  key,  "You  really  will 
enjoy  it,  won't  you?" 

He  looked  up  at  her.  Her  face,  illuminated  by  the 
firelight,  though  dimmed  against  the  evening  blue 
outside,  was  turned  on  him  with  its  sudden  intent- 
ness  and  penetration  of  gaze. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  almost  stammered,  confused 
by  the  unexpected  scrutiny. 

"I  shall  love  having  you,  you  know,"  she  said. 


212  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"I  shall  love  being  with  you,"  he  answered,  now 
without  a  single  inner  reserve. 

Her  intentness  seemed  to  soften,  there  was  solici 
tude  and  a  sort  of  persuasiveness  in  it.  "And  you 
will  have  a  much  better  chance  of  really  Adjusting 
things  there— your  friendship  with  Imogen,  I  mean. 
The  country  smooths  things  out.  Things  get  sweet 
and  simple." 

He  did  n't  know  what  to  say.  Her  mistake,  if  it 
were  one,  was  so  inevitable. 

"Imogen  will  have  taken  her  bearings  by  then," 
she  went  on.  "She  has  had  so  much  to  get  accus 
tomed  to,  to  bear  with,  poor  child ;  her  great  bereave 
ment,  and— and  a  mother  who,  in  some  ways,  must 
always  be  a  trial  to  her. ' ' 

"Oh,  a  trial!"— Jack  lamely  murmured. 

"I  recognize  it,  Jack.  I  think  that  you  do.  But 
when  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  me,  and  discovers 
that,  at  all  events,  I  don't  interfere  with  anything 
that  she  really  cares  about,  she  will  be  able  to  take 
up  all  her  old  threads  again. ' ' 

"I— I  suppose  so,"  Jack  murmured. 

He  had  dropped  his  eyes,  for  he  knew  that  hers 
were  on  him.  And  now,  in  a  lowered  voice,  he  heard 
her  say,  "Jack,  I  hope  that  you  will  help  me  with 
Imogen." 

"Help  you?  How  do  you  mean?"  startled,  he 
looked  up. 

"You  know.  Interpret  me  to  her  now  and  then, 
when  you  can.  with  kindliness.  You  understand  me 
so  much  more  kindly  than  she  does." 

His  eyes  fixed   on   hers,   deeply   flushing— "Oh, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  213 

but,"— he  breathed  out  with  almost  a  long  sigh,— 
"that  's  what  I  have  done,  you  see,  ever  since—" 

' '  Ever  since  what  ? ' ' 

"Since  I  came  to  understand  you  so  mueh  better 
than  she  does." 

There  was  a  long  pause  now  and,  the  firelight 
flickering  low,  he  could  hardly  see  her  face.  But  he 
recognized  change  in  her  voice  as  she  said:  "You 
have?  I  don't  mean,  you  know,  taking  my  side  in 
disputes. ' ' 

"I  know;  I  don't  mean  that,  either,  though,  per 
haps,  I  can't  help  doing  it;  for,"  said  Jack,  "it  's 
on  your  side  that  I  am,  you  know. " 

The  change  in  her  voice,  but  controlled,  kept  down, 
she  answered  quickly, 

"Ah,  but,  dear  Jack,  I  don't  want  to  have  a  side. 
It  's  that  that  I  want  her  to  realize.  I  want  her  to 
feel  that  my  side  is  hers.  I  want  you  to  help  me  in 
making  her  feel  it. ' ' 

"But  she  '11  never  feel  it!"  Jack  breathed  out 
again.  Behind  the  barrier  of  the  tea-table,  in  the 
flickering  dimness,  they  were  speaking  suddenly  with 
a  murmuring,  yet  so  sharp  a  confidence ;  a  confidence 
that  in  broad  daylight,  or  in  complete  solitude,  might 
have  seemed  impossible.  All  sorts  of  things  must 
steal  out  in  that  persuasive,  that  peopled  yet  solitary, 
twilight. 

He  knew  that  Valerie's  eyes  dwelt  on  him  with 
anxiety  and  that  it  was  with  a  faint,  forced  smile 
that  she  asked  him:  "She  does  n't  think  that  I  '11 
ever  reach  her  side?" 

"7  don't  believe  you  ever  will,"  said  Jack.    Then, 


214  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

for  he  could  n't  bear  that  she  should  misunderstand 
him  for  another  moment,  misunderstanding  when 
they  had  come  so  far  was  too  unendurable,  he  went 
on  in  a  hurried  undertone :  "You  are  n't  on  her  side, 
really.  You  can  never  be  on  her  side.  You  can 
never  be  like  her,  or  see  like  her.  And  I  don't  want 
you  to.  It  's  you  who  see  clearly,  not  she.  It  's  you 
who  are  all  right." 

Her  long  silence,  after  this,  seemed  to  him  like  the 
hovering  of  hands  upon  him ;  as  though,  in  darkness, 
she  sought  by  touch  to  recognize  some  strange  object 
put  before  her. 

"But  then,—  '  she,  too,  only  breathed  it  out  at 
last,— "but  then,— you  are  not  on  her  side." 

"That  's  just  it,"  said  Jack.  He  did  not  look  at 
her  and  she  was  silent  once  more  before  his  confes 
sion. 

"But,"  she  again  took  up  the  search,  "that  is  ter 
rible  for  her,  if  she  feels  it. ' ' 

"And  for  me,  too,  is  n't  it?"  he  questioned,  as  if 
he  turned  the  surfaces  of  the  object  beneath  her 
fingers. 

The  soft,  frightened  hover  seemed  to  go  all  over  it, 
to  recognize  it  finally,  and  to  draw  back,  terrified, 
from  recognition. 

"Most  terrible  of  all  for  me,  if  I  have  come  be 
tween  you, ' '  she  said. 

Her  pain  pierced  him  so,  that  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  hers.  Don 't  think  that ;  you  must  n  't  think 
that,  not  for  a  moment.  It  's  not  that  you  came  be 
tween  us.  It  's  only  that,  because  of  you,  I  began  to 
see  things— 'as  I  had  n't  seen  them.  It  was  just,— 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  215 

well,  just  like  seeing  one  color  change  when  another 
is  put  beside  it.  Imogen's  blue,  now  that  your  gold 
has  come,  is  turned  to  green;  that  's  all  that  has 
happened." 

"All  that  has  happened!  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying,  Jack !  If  my  gold  were  gone,  would  the 
blue  come  back  again  ? ' ' 

"The  blue  will  never  come  back,"  said  Jack. 

He  felt,  as  her  hand  tightened  on  his,  that  he 
would  have  liked  to  put  his  head  down  on  her  knees 
and  sob  like  a  little  boy;  but  when  she  said,  "And 
the  green  you  cannot  care  for  ? ' '  his  own  hand  tight 
ened  as  if  they  clutched  some  secret  together,  some 
secret  that  neither  must  dare  look  at.  "You  must  n't 
think  that— you  must  n't.  And  I  must  n't."  He 
said  it  with  all  the  revolt  and  all  the  strength  of  his 
will  and  loyalty ;  with  all  his  longing,  too.  ' '  The  real 
truth  is  that  the  green  can't  care  for  me  unless  I  will 
see  it  back  to  blue  again — and  as  I  can't  do  that,  and 
as  it  won't  accept  my  present  vision,  there  is  a  sort 
of  dead-lock. ' ' 

For  a  long  moment  her  hand  continued  to  grasp 
his,  before,  as  if  taking  in  the  ambiguous  comfort  of 
his  final  defmiteness,  it  relaxed  and  she  drew  it  away. 

"Perhaps  she  will  care  enough,"  she  said. 

"To  accept  my  vision?  To  forego  blue?  To  con 
sent  that  I  shall  see  her  as  green  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  when  she  has  taken  up  all  the  threads." 

"Perhaps  she  will,"  said  Jack. 


XVI 

|T  was  a  few  days  after  this,  just  before 
Jack's  return  to  Boston— and  the  part 
ing  now  was  to  be  until  they  met  in 
Vermont— that  he  and  Imogen  had  an 
other  walk,  another  talk  together. 
The  mid-May  had  become  seasonably  mild  and,  at 
Jack's  suggestion,  they  had  taken  the  elevated  cars 
up  to  Central  Park  for  the  purpose  of  there  seeing 
the  wistaria  in  its  full  bloom. 

They  strolled  in  the  sunlight  under  arbors  rippling 
all  over  with  the  exquisite  purple,  dark  and  pale, 
the  thin  fine  leaves  of  a  strange  olive-green,  the  deli 
cate  tendrils ;  they  passed  into  open  spaces  where,  on 
gray  rocks,  it  streamed  like  the  tresses  of  a  cascade ; 
it  climbed  and  heaped  itself  on  wayside  trellises  and 
ran  nimbly,  in  a  shower  of  fragile  color,  up  the 
trunks,  along  the  branches,  of  the  trees.  Jack  al 
ways  afterward  associated  the  soft,  falling  purple, 
the  soft,  languorous  fragrance,  the  almost  uncanny 
beauty  of  the  wistaria,  with  melancholy  and  presage. 
Imogen,  for  the  first  time  since  her  father's  death, 
showed  a  concession  to  the  year's  revival  in  a  trans 
parent  band  of  white  at  her  neck  and  wrists.  Her 
little  hat,  too,  was  of  transparent  black,  its  crape  put 

216 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  217 

aside.  But,  though  she  and  the  day  shared  in  bloom 
and  youthfulness,  Jack  had  never  seen  her  look  more 
heavily  bodeful ;  had  never  seen  her  eyes  more  fixed, 
her  lips  more  cold  and  stern.  The  excitement  that 
he  had  felt  in  her  was  gone.  Her  curiosity,  her 
watchfulness,  had  been  satisfied,  and  grimly  re 
warded.  She  faced  sinister  facts.  Jack  felt  himself 
ready  to  face  them,  too. 

They  had  spoken  little  in  the  clattering  car,  and 
for  a  long  time  after  they  reached  the  park  and 
walked  hither  and  thither  among  its  paths,  following 
at  random  the  beckoning  purple  of  the  wistaria, 
neither  spoke  of  anything  but  commonplaces;  indi 
cating  points  of  view,  or  assenting  to  appreciations. 
But  Imogen  said  at  last,  and  he  knew  that  with  the 
words  she  led  him  up  to  those  facts:  "Do  you  re 
member,  Jack,  the  day  we  met  mama,  you  and  I, 
on  the  docks  ? ' ' 

Jack  replied  that  he  did. 

"What  a  different  day  from  this,"  said  Imogen, 
"with  its  frosty  glory,  its  challenge,  its  strength." 

"Very  different." 

' '  And  how  different  our  lives  are, ' '  said  Imogen. 

He  did  not  reply  for  some  moments,  and  it  was 
then  to  say  gently  that  he  hoped  they  were  not  so 
different  as,  perhaps,  they  seemed. 

"It  is  not  I  who  have  changed,  Jack, "  said  Imogen, 
looking  before  her.  And  going  on,  as  though  she 
wished  to  hear  no  reply  to  this :  ' '  Do  you  remember 
how  we  felt  as  the  steamer  came  in  ?  We  determined 
that  she  should  change  nothing,  that  we  would  n't 
yield  to  any  menace  of  the  things  we  were  then 


218  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

united  in  holding  dear.  It  's  strange,  is  n't  it,  to 
see  how  subtly  she  has  changed  everything?  It  's 
as  if  our  frosty,  sparkling  landscape,  all  wind  and 
vigor  and  discipline,  were  suddenly  transformed  to 
this,—  "  Imogen  looked  about  her  at  the  limpid 
day,— "to  soft  yielding,  soft  color,  soft  perfume,— 
it  's  like  mama,  that  fragrance  of  the  wistaria,— to 
something  smiling,  languid,  alluring.  This  is  the 
sort  of  day  on  which  one  drifts.  Our  past  day  was 
a  day  of  steering. ' ' 

As  much  as  for  the  meaning  of  her  careful  words, 
Jack  felt  rising  in  him  an  anger  against  the  sense  of 
a  readiness  prepared  beforehand.  "You  describe  it 
all  very  prettily,  Imogen,"  he  answered,  mastering 
the  anger.  ' '  But  I  don 't  agree  with  you. ' ' 

"You  seldom  do  now,  Jack.  Perhaps  it  's  because 
I  've  remained  in  my  own  climate  while  you  have 
been  borne  by  the  'warm,  sweet,  harmless'  current 
into  this  one. ' ' 

"I  am  not  conscious  of  any  tendency  to  drift, 
Imogen.  I  still  steer.  I  intend,  very  firmly,  always 
to  steer. ' ' 

"To  what,  may  I  ask?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  said,  lifting  eyes 
in  which  she  read  all  that  new  steeliness  of  opposi 
tion,  with,  yet,  in  it,  through  it,  the  sadness  of  hope 
less  appeal:  "I  believe  in  all  our  ideals— just  as  I 
used  to. ' ' 

To  this  Imogen  made  no  rejoinder. 

"Do  you  like  Sir  Basil?"  she  asked  presently, 
after,  for  some  time,  they  had  turned  along  the  wind 
ings  of  a  long  path  in  a  heavy  silence. 

"I    've  hardly  seen  him."     Jack's  voice  had  a 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  219 

forced  lightness,  as  though  for  relief  at  the  change 
of  subject ;  but  he  guessed  that  the  change  was  only 
apparent.  "He  is  very  nice;  very  delightful  look 
ing." 

"Yes;  very  delightful  looking.  Do  you  happen 
to  remember  what  I  said  to  you  about  him,  long  ago, 
in  the  winter  ?  About  him  and  mama  ? ' ' 

"Yes";  Jack  flushed;  "I  remember." 

"I  told  you  to  wait." 

"Yes;  you  told  me  to  wait." 

' '  You  will  own  now,  I  hope,  that  I  was  right. ' ' 

"Right  in  thinking  that  he— that  they  were  more 
than  friends  ? ' ' 

"Right  in  thinking  that  he  was  in  love  with  her; 
that  she  allowed  it." 

' '  I  suppose  you  were  right. ' ' 

"I  was  right.  And  it  's  more  than  that  now.  I 
have  every  reason  to  believe  that  she  intends  to 
marry  him. ' ' 

He  ignored  her  portentous  pause  and  drop  of  the 
voice,  walking  on  with  downcast  eyes.  "You  mean, 
it  's  an  accepted  thing  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no!  not  yet  accepted.  Mama  respects  the 
black  edge,  you  know.  But  I  heard  Mrs.  Wake  and 
Mrs.  Pakenham  talking  about  it." 

"Heard?  How  could  you  have  heard?"  Jack's 
eyes,  stern  with  accusation,  were  now  upon  her. 

It  was  impossible  for  Imogen  to  lie  consciously, 
and  though  she  had  not,  in  her  eagerness  that  he 
should  own  her  right  and  share  her  reprobation, 
foreseen  this  confrontation,  she  held,  before  it,  all 
the  dignity  of  full  sincerity. 

"You  are  changed,  indeed,  Jack,  when  you  can 


220  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

suspect  me  of  eavesdropping!  I  was  asleep  on  the 
sofa  in  the  library,  worn  out  with  work,  and  I  woke 
to  hear  them  talking  in  the  next  room,  with  the  door 
ajar.  I  did  not  realize,  for  some  moments,  what  was 
being  said.  And  then  they  went  out. " 

' '  Of  course  I  don 't  suspect  you ;  of  course  I  don 't 
think  that  you  would  eavesdrop ;  though  I  do  hate— 
hearing, ' '  Jack  muttered. 

' '  I  hope  you  realize  that  I  share  your  hatred, ' '  said 
Imogen.  "But  your  opinion  of  me  is  not,  here,  to 
the  point.  I  only  wish  to  put  before  you  what  I 
have  now  to  bear.  Mrs.  Pakenham  said  that  she 
wagered  that  before  the  year  was  out  Sir  Basil 
would  have  married  mama."  Imogen  paused, 
breathing  deeply. 

Jack  walked  on  beside  her,  not  knowing  what  to 
say.  "I  think  so,  too,  and  wish  her  joy,"  would 
have  been  the  truest  rendering  of  his  feeling. 

He  curbed  it  to  ask  cautiously,  ' '  And  you  mind  so 
much?" 

' '  Mind ! ' '  she  repeated,  a  thunderous  echo. 

"You  dislike  it  so?" 

' '  Dislike  ?     You  use  strangely  inapt  words. ' ' 

He  had  another  parenthetic  shoot  of  impatience 
with  her  dreadful  articulateness ;  had  Imogen  always 
talked  so  much  like  the  heroine  of  a  novel  with  a 
purpose  ? 

"I  only  meant— can't  you  put  up  with  it?" 

' '  Put  up  with  it  ?  Can  I  do  anything  else  ?  What 
power  have  I  over  her?  You  don't  seem  to  under 
stand.  I  have  passed  beyond  caring  that  she  makes 
herself  petty,  ridiculous;  as  a  woman  of  her  age 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  221 

must  in  marrying  again— the  clutch  of  fading  life 
at  the  happiness  it  has  forfeited.  Let  her  clutch  if 
she  chooses;  let  her  marry  if  she  chooses,  whom  she 
chooses,  yes,  when  she  chooses.  But  don't  you  see 
how  it  shatters  my  every  hope  of  her, — my  every 
ideal  of  her?  And  don't  you  see  how  my  heart  is 
pierced  by  the  presence  of  that  man  in  my  father's 
house,  the  house  that  she  abandoned  and  cast  a 
shadow  upon?  How  filled  with  bitter  shame  and 
anguish  I  am  when  I  see  him  there,  in  that  house, 
sacred  to  my  grief  and  to  my  memories — making  love 
to  my  mother  ? ' ' 

No,  really,  never,  never  had  he  heard  Imogen  so 
fluent  and  so  dramatically  telling ;  and  never  had  he 
been  so  unmoved  by  the  feeling  under  the  fluency. 
It  was  as  if  he  could  believe  in  none. 

He  remained  silent  and  Imogen  continued :  "When 
she  came  back,  I  believed  that  it  was  with  an  impulse 
of  penitence;  with  the  wish,  shallow  though  I  knew 
that  it  must  be  in  such  a  nature,  to  atone  to  me  for 
the  ruin  that  she  had  made  in  his  life.  I  was  all 
tenderness  and  sympathy  for  her,  all  a  longing  to 
help  and  sustain  her— as  you  must  remember.  But 
now !  It  fulfils  all  that  I  had  feared  and  suspected 
in  her— and  more  than  all !  She  left  England,  she 
came  here,  that  the  conventions  might  be  observed; 
and,  considering  them  observed  enough  for  her  pur 
pose,  she  receives  her  suitor,  eight  months  after  my 
father's  lonely  death, — in  the  house  where  my  heart 
breaks  and  bleeds  for  him,  where  7  mourn  for  him, 
where  /—alone,  it  seems— feel  him  flouted  and  be 
trayed  !  And  she  talks  of  her  love  for  me ! " 


222  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Jack  was  wondering  that  her  coherent  passion  did 
not  beat  him  into  helpless  acquiescence ;  but,  instead, 
he  found  himself  at  once  replying,  "You  don't  see 
fairly.  You  exaggerate  it  all.  She  was  unhappy 
with  your  father.  For  years  he  made  her  unhappy. 
And  now,  if  she  can  care  for  a  man  who  can  make 
her  happy,  she  has  a  right,  a  perfect  right,  to  take 
her  happiness.  As  for  her  loving  you,  I  don't  be 
lieve  that  any  one  loves  you  more  truly.  It  'a  your 
chance,  now,  to  show  your  love  for  her. ' ' 

Imogen  stood  still  and  looked  at  him  from  the 
black  disk  of  her  parasol. 

"I  think  I  've  suspected  this  of  you,  too,  Jack," 
she  said.  "Yes,  I  've  suspected,  in  dreadful  mo 
ments  of  revelation,  how  far  your  undermining  has 
gone.  And  you  say  you  are  not  changed ! " 

"Would  you  ask  your  mother  never  to  marry 
again?" 

"I  would— if  she  were  in  any  way  to  redeem  her 
image  in  my  eyes.  But,  granting  to  the  full  that 
one  must  make  concessions  to  such  creatures  of  the 
senses,  I  would  ask  her,  at  the  very  least,  to  have 
waited." 

"Creatures  of  the  senses!"  Jack  repeated  in  a 
helpless  gasp ;  such  words,  in  their  austere  vocabu 
lary,  were  hardly  crodible.  ' '  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying,  you  arrogant,  you  heartless  girl?" 

Her  face  seemed  to  flash  at  him  like  lightning  from 
a  black  cloud,  and  with  the  lightning  a  reality  that 
had  lacked  before  to  leap  to  her  voice : 

"Ah!  At  last— at  last  you  are  saying  what  you 
have  felt  for  a  long  time !  At  last  I  know  what  you 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  223 

think  of  me!  So  be  it!  I  don't  retract  one  jot  or 
tittle  of  what  I  say.  Mama  is  a  perfectly  moral 
woman,  if  you  actually  imagine  some  base  imputa 
tion;  but  she  lives  for  the  pleasant,  the  pretty,  the 
easy.  She  does  n't  love  this  man's  soul— nor  care  if 
he  has  one.  Her  love  for  him  is  a  parody  of  the  love 
that  my  father  taught  me  to  understand  and  to  hold 
sacred.  She  loves  his  love  for  her;  his  'delightful' 
appearance.  She  loves  his  place  and  name  and  all 
the  power  and  leisure  of  the  life  he  can  give  her. 
She  loves  the  world— in  him ;  and  in  that  I  mean  and 
repeat  that  she  is  a  creature  of  the  senses.  And  if, 
for  this,  you  think  me  arrogant  and  heartless,  you  do 
not  trouble  in  one  whit  my  vision  of  myself,  but  you 
do,  forever,  mar  my  vision  of  you." 

They  stood  face  to  face  in  the  soft  sweet  air  under 
an  arch  of  wistaria;  it  seemed  a  place  to  plight  a 
troth,  not  to  break  one;  but  Jack  knew  that,  if  he 
would,  he  could  not  have  kept  the  truth  from  her. 
It  held  him,  looked  from  him ;  he  was,  at  last,  inevit 
ably,  to  speak  it. 

"Imogen,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  your  mother;  I  don't  want  to  defend  her  to 
you ;  I  'm  past  that.  I  '11  say  nothing  of  your  sum 
ming  up  of  her  character,— it  's  grotesque,  it  's 
piteous,  such  assurance !  But  I  do  tell  you  straight 
what  I  've  come  to  feel  of  you— that  you  are  a  cold 
blooded,  self-righteous,  self -centered  girl.  And  I  11 
say  more:  I  think  that  your  bringing-up,  the  arti 
ficiality,  the  complacent  theory  of  it,  is  your  best 
excuse ;  and  I  think  that  you  '11  never  find  any  one 
BO  generous  and  so  understanding  of  you  as  your 


224  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

mother.     If  this  mars  me  in  your  eyes,  I  can't  help 
it." 

For  a  moment,  in  her  deep  anger,— horror  running 
through  it,  too,  as  though  the  very  bottom  had 
dropped  out  of  things  and  she  saw  emptiness  beneath 
her,— she  thought  that  she  would  tell  him  to  leave 
her  there,  forever.  But  Imogen 's  intelligence  was  at 
times  a  fairly  efficacious  substitute  for  deeper  prompt 
ings;  and  humiliation,  instead  of  enwrapping  her 
mind  in  a  flare  of  passionate  vanity,  seemed,  when 
such  intellectual  apprehension  accompanied  it,  to 
clarify,  to  steady  her  thoughts.  She  saw,  now,  in 
the  sudden  uncanny  illumination,  that  in  all  her 
vehemence  of  this  afternoon  there  had  been  some 
thing  fictitious.  The  sorrow,  the  resentment  on  her 
father 's  account,  she  had,  indeed,  long  felt ;  too  long 
to  feel  keenly.  Her  disapproval  of  the  second  mar 
riage  was  already  tinctured  by  a  certain  satisfaction ; 
it  would  free  her  of  a  thorn  in  the  flesh,  for  such  her 
mother's  presence  in  her  life  had  become,  and  it 
would  justify  forever  her  sense  of  superiority.  It 
was  all  the  clearest  cause  for  indignation  that  her 
mother  had  given  her,  and,  seeing  it  as  such,  she  had 
longed  to  make  Jack  share  her  secure  reprobation ; 
but  she  had  n  't,  really,  been  able  to  feel  it  as  she  saw 
it.  It  solved  too  many  problems  and  salved  too 
many  hurts.  So  now,  standing  there  under  the  arch 
of  wistaria,  she  saw  through  herself;  saw,  at  the 
very  basis  of  her  impulse,  the  dislocation  that  had 
made  its  demonstration  dramatic  and  unconvincing. 
Dreadful  as  the  humiliation  was,  her  lips  growing 
parched,  her  throat  hot  and  dry  with  it,  her  intelli- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  225 

gence  saw  its  cause  too  clearly  for  her  to  resent  it 
as  she  would  have  resented  one  less  justified.  There 
was,  perhaps,  something  to  be  said  for  Jack,  disas 
trously  wrong  though  he  was;  and,  with  all  her  es 
sential  Tightness,  there  was,  perhaps,  something  to 
be  said  against  her.  She  could  not  break,  without 
further  reflection,  the  threads  that  still  held  them 
together. 

So,  at  the  moment  of  their  deepest  hostility,  Jack 
was  to  have  his  sweetest  impression  of  her.  She 
did  n  't  order  him  away  in  tragic  tones,  as  he  almost 
expected;  she  did  n't  overwhelm  him  with  an  icy 
torrent  of  reproach  and  argument.  Instead,  as  she 
stood  there  against  her  halo  of  black,  the  long  regard 
of  her  white  face  fixed  on  him,  her  eyes  suddenly 
filled  with  tears.  She  did  n't  acquiesce  for  a  mo 
ment,  or,  for  a  moment,  imply  him  anything  but 
miserably,  pitiably  wrong ;  but  in  a  voice  from  which 
every  trace  of  anger  had  faded  she  said :  ' '  Oh  Jack, 
how  you  hurt  me ! " 

The  shock  of  his  surprise  was  so  great  that  hi 
cheeks  flamed  as  though  she  had  struck  him.  An 
swering  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  He  stammered, 
could  not  speak  at  first,  then  got  out:  "Forgive  me. 
I  'd  no  business  to  say  it.  It  's  lovely  of  you,  Imogen 
not  just  to  send  me  off. ' ' 

She  felt  her  triumph,  her  half-triumph,  at  once 
"Why,  Jack,  if  you  think  it,  why  should  I  forgive 
you  for  saying  what,  to  you,  seems  the  truth  ?  You 
have  forgotten  me,  Jack,  almost  altogether ;  but  don't 
forget  that  truth  is  the  thing  that  I  care  most  for. 
If  you  must  think  these  things  of  me— and  not  only 

15 


226  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

of  me,  of  a  dearer  self,  for  I  understand  all  that  you 
meant— I  must  accept  the  sorrow  and  pain  of  it. 
When  we  care  for  people  we  must  accept  suffering 
because  of  them.  Perhaps,  in  time,  you  may  come  to 
see  differently. ' ' 

He  knew,  though  she  made  him  feel  so  abashed, 
that  he  could  take  back  none  of  the  "things"  he 
thought;  but  as  she  had  smiled  faintly  at  him  he 
answered  with  a  wavering  smile,  putting  out  his 
hand  to  hers  and  holding  it  while  he  said :  ' '  Shall  we 
agree,  then,  to  say  nothing  more  about  it  ?  To  be  as 
good  friends— as  the  truth  will  let  us?" 

He  had  never  hurt  her  as  at  that  moment  of  gentle 
ness,  compunction,  and  inflexibility,  and  thought, 
for  a  moment,  was  obscured  by  a  rush  of  bitter  pain 
that  could  almost  have  cast  her  upon  his  breast, 
weeping  and  suppliant  for  all  that  his  words  shut 
the  door  on— perhaps  forever. 

But  such  impulses  were  swiftly  mastered  in  poor 
Imogen.  Gravely  pressing  his  hand,  she  accepted 
the  cutting  compact,  and,  over  her  breathless  sense 
of  loss,  held  firm  to  the  spiritual  advantage  of  mag 
nanimity  and  courage.  He  judged  himself,  not  her, 
in  letting  her  go,  if  he  was  really  letting  her  go ;  and 
she  must  see  him  wander  away  into  the  darkness, 
alone,  leaving  her  alone.  It  was  tragic  ;  it  was  nearly 
unendurable ;  but  this  was  one  of  life's  hard  lessons ; 
her  father  had  so  often  told  her  that  they  must  be 
unflinchingly  faced,  unflinchingly  conquered.  So 
she  triumphed  over  the  weak  crying  out  of  human 
need. 

They  walked  on  slowly  again,  both  feeling  a  little 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  227 

' '  done. ' '  Neither  spoke  until,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
park,  and  just  before  leaving  its  poetry  for  the 
screaming  prose  of  the  great  city,  Imogen  said :  "One 
thing  I  want  to  tell  you,  Jack,  and  that  is  that  you 
may  trust  mama  to  me.  Whatever  I  may  think  of 
this  happiness  that  she  is  reaching  out  for,  I  shall 
not  make  it  difficult  or  painful  for  her  to  take  it. 
My  pain  shall  cast  no  shadow  on  her  gladness. ' ' 

Jack's  face  still  showed  its  flush  and  his  voice  had 
all  the  steadiness  of  his  own  interpretation,  the  steadi^ 
ness  of  his  refusal  to  accept  hers,  as  he  answered, 
' '  Thanks,  Imogen ;  that  's  very  right  of  you. ' ' 


XVII 

^MOGEN  and  Sir  Basil  were  walking 
down  a  woodland  path  under  the  sky 
of  American  summer,  a  vast,  high, 
cloudless  dome  of  blue.  Trees,  tall  and 
delicate,  in  early  June  foliage,  grew 
closely  on  the  hillside ;  the  grass  of  the  open  glades 
was  thick  with  wild  Solomon 's-seal,  and  fragile  clus 
ters  of  wild  columbine  grew  in  the  niches  and  cran 
nies  of  the  rocks,  their  pale-red  chalices  filled  with 
fantastically  fretted  gold. 

Imogen,  dressed  in  thin  black  lawn,  fine  plaitings 
of  white  at  throat  and  wrists,  her  golden  head  un 
covered,  walked  a  little  before  Sir  Basil  with  her 
long,  light,  deliberate  step.  She  had  an  errand  in 
the  village  two  miles  away,  and  her  mother  had  sug 
gested  that  Sir  Basil  should  go  with  her  and  have 
some  first  impressions  of  rural  New  England.  He 
had  only  arrived  the  night  before.  Miss  Bocock  and 
the  Pottses  were  expected  this  afternoon,  and  Mrs. 
Wake  had  been  for  a  fortnight  established  in  her 
tiny  cottage  on  the  opposite  hillside. 

"Tell  me  about  your  village  here,"  Sir  Basil  had 
said,  and  Imogen,  with  punctual  courtesy  and  kind- 

228 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  229 

ness,  the  carrying  out  of  her  promise  to  Jack,  had 
rejoined:  "It  would  be  rather  uneventful  annals 
that  I  should  have  to  tell  you.  The  people  are  palely 
prosperous.  They  lead  monotonous  lives.  They 
look  forward  for  variety  and  interest,  I  think,  to  the 
summer,  when  all  of  us  are  here.  One  does  all  one 
can,  then,  to  make  some  color  for  them.  I  have  or 
ganized  a  kindergarten  for  the  tiny  children,  and  a 
girls'  club  for  debates  and  reading;  it  will  help  to 
an  awakening  I  believe.  I  'm  going  to  the  club  this 
afternoon.  I  'm  very  grateful  to  my  girls  for  help 
ing  me  as  they  do  to  be  of  use  to  them.  It  's  quite 
wonderful  what  they  have  done  already.  Our  vil 
lage  life  is  in  no  sense  like  yours  in  England,  you 
know ;  these  people  are  all  very  proud  and  indepen 
dent.  It  's  as  a  friend,  not  as  a  Lady  Bountiful,  that 
I  go  among  them." 

"I  see,"  said  Sir  Basil,  with  interest,  "that  's 
awfully  nice  all  round.  I  wish  we  could  get  rid  of  a 
lot  of  stupid  ways  of  thought  at  home.  I  '11  see 
something  of  these  friends  of  yours  at  the  house, 
then.  I  'm  immensely  interested  in  all  these  differ 
ences,  you  know." 

"You  won't  see  them  at  the  house.  Our  relation 
is  friendly,  not  social.  That  is  a  froth  that  does  n't 
count. ' ' 

"Oh!  and  they  don't  mind  that— not  having  the 
social  relation,  I  mean— if  they  are  friends?" 

"Why  should  they?  I  am  not  hurt  because  they 
do  not  ask  me  to  their  picnics  and  parties,  nor  are 
they  because  I  don't  ask  them  to  my  dinners  and 
teas.  We  both  understand  that  all  that  is  a  matter 


230  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

of  manner  and  accident;  that  in  essentials  we  are 
equal. ' ' 

"I  see;  but,"  Sir  Basil  still  queried,  "you 
would  n't  care  about  their  parties,  I  suppose,  and 
don't  you  think  they  might  like  your  dinners?  At 
least  that  's  the  way  it  would  work  out,  I  'm  afraid, 
at  home." 

"Ah,  it  does  n't  here.  They  are  too  civilized  for 
that.  Neither  of  us  would  feel  fitted  to  the  super 
ficial  aspects  of  the  others'  lives." 

"We  have  that  sort  of  thing  in  England,  too,  you 
know;  only  perhaps  we  look  at  it  more  from  the 
other  side,  and  recognize  difference  rather  than  same 
ness." 

"Very  much  more,  I  think,"  said  Imogen  with  a 
slight  smile.  "I  should  think  that  there  was  very 
little  resemblance.  Your  social  structure  is  a  whole 
some,  natural  growth,  embodying  ideals  that,  in  the 
main,  are  unconscious.  We  started  from  that  and 
have  been  building  ever  since  toward  conscious 
ideals." 

"Well," — Sir  Basil  passed  over  this  simile,  a  lit 
tle  perplexed,— "it  's  very  wonderful  that  they 
should  n't  feel— inferior,  you  know,  in  our  ugly 
sense  of  the  word,  if  they  only  get  one  side  of  friend 
ship  and  not  the  other.  Now  that  's  how  we  manage 
in  England,  you  see;  but  then  I  'm  afraid  it  does  n't 
work  out  as  you  say  it  does  here ;  I  'm  afraid  they  do 
feel  inferior,  after  a  fashion." 

"Only  the  truly  inferior  could  feel  inferiority, 
since  they  get  the  real  side  of  friendship,"  said  Imo 
gen,  with  gentle  authority.  "And  I  can't  think 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  231 

that,  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  the  real  side  is  given 
with  you.  There  is  conscious  condescension,  con 
scious  adaptation  to  a  standard  supposed  lower." 

"I  see;  I  see";  Sir  Basil  murmured,  looking, 
while  still  perplexed,  rather  conscience-stricken; 
"yes,  I  suppose  you  're  right." 

Imogen  looked  as  though  she  more  than  supposed 
it,  and,  feeling  himself  quite  worsted,  Sir  Basil  went 
on  to  ask  her  further  questions  about  the  club  and 
kindergarten. 

"What  a  lot  of  work  it  must  all  mean  for  you,"  he 
said. 

"That,  I  think,  is  one's  only  right  to  the  advan 
tages  one  has— education,  taste,  inherited  traditions," 
said  Imogen,  willing  to  enlighten  this  charmingly 
civilized,  yet  spiritually  barbarous,  interlocutor  who 
followed  her,  tall,  in  his  delightfully  outdoor-looking 
garments,  his  tie  and  the  tilt  of  his  Panama  hat  an 
swering  her  nicest  sense  of  fitness,  and  his  handsome 
brown  face,  quizzical,  yet  very  attentive,  meeting 
her  eyes  on  its  leafy  background  whenever  she 
turned  her  head.  "If  they  are  not  made  in 
struments  to  use  for  others  they  rust  in  our 
hands  and  poison  us,"  she  said.  "That  's  the 
only  real  significance  of  an  aristocracy,  a  class 
fitted  to  serve,  with  the  highest  service,  the  needs 
of  all.  Of  course,  much  of  our  best  and  deep 
est  thought  about  these  things  is  English;  don't  im 
agine  me  ungrateful  to  the  noble  thinkers  of  your— 
of  my— race, — they  have  moulded  and  inspired  us; 
but,  there  is  the  strange  paradox  of  your  civiliza 
tion,  your  thought  reacts  so  little  on  your  life.  Your 


232  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

idealists  and  seers  count  only  for  your  culture,  and 
even  in  your  culture  affect  so  little  the  automatic 
existence  of  your  people.  They  form  a  little  isolated 
class,  a  leaven  that  lies  outside  the  lump.  Now,  with 
us,  thought  rises,  works,  ferments  through  every 
section  of  our  common  life. ' ' 

Quite  without  fire,  almost  indolently,  she  spoke; 
very  simply,  too,  glancing  round  at  him,  as  though 
she  could  not  expect  much  understanding  from  such 
an  alien  listener. 

"I  'm  awfully  glad,  you  know,  to  get  you  to  talk 
to  me  like  this,"  said  Sir  Basil,  after  a  meditative 
pause ;  "  I  saw  a  good  bit  of  you  in  New  York,  but 
you  never  talked  much  with  me." 

"You  had  mama  to  talk  to." 

"But  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  too.  You  do  a  lot  of 
thinking,  I  can  see  that." 

"I  try  to";  she  smiled  a  little  at  his  naivete. 

"Your  mother  told  me  so  much  about  you  that 
I  'm  tremendously  eager  to  know  you  for  myself. ' ' 

"Well,  I  hope  that  you  may  come  to,  for  mama's 
pictures  of  me  are  not  likely  to  be  accurate,"  said 
Imogen  mildly.  "We  don't  think  in  the  same  way 
or  see  things  in  the  same  way  and,  though  we  are  so 
fond  of  each  other,  we  are  not  interested  in  the  same 
things.  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  don't  Interest  her 
particular  friends.  They  would  not  find  much  in 
common  between  mama  and  me";  but  her  smile 
was  now  a  little  humorous  and  she  was  quite  pre 
pared  for  his  ' '  Oh,  but,  I  assure  you,  I  am  interested 
in  you." 

Already,  with  her  unerring  instinct  for  power, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  233 

Imogen  knew  that  Sir  Basil  was  interested  in  her. 
There  was  only,  to  be  sure,  a  languid  pleasure  in  the 
sense  of  power  over  a  person  already,  as  it  were,  so 
bespoken,  so  in  bondage  to  other  altars ;  but,  though 
without  a  trace  of  coquetry,  the  smile  quietly 
claimed  him  as  a  partial,  a  damaged  convert.  Imo 
gen  always  knew  when  people  were  capable  of  being, 
as  she  expressed  it  to  herself,  "Hers."  She  made 
small  effort  for  those  who  were  without  the  capacity. 
She  never  misdirected  such  smiles  upon  Rose,  or  Miss 
Bocock,  or  Mrs.  Wake.  And  now,  as  Sir  Basil  went 
on  to  asseverate,  just  behind  her  shoulder,  his  pleas 
ant  tones  quite  touched  with  eagerness,  that  the  more 
he  saw  of  her  the  more  interested  he  became,  she 
allowed  him  to  draw  her  into  a  playful  argument  on 
the  subject. 

"Yes,  I  quite  believe  that  you  would  like  me— if 
you  came  to  know  me" — she  was  willing  to  concede 
at  last;  "but,  no,  indeed  no,  I  don't  think  that  you 
would  ever  feel  much  interest  in  me." 

"You  mean  because  I  'm  not  sufficiently  interest 
ing  myself?  Is  that  it,  eh?"  Sir  Basil. acutely  asked, 
reflecting  that  he  had  never  seen  a  girl  walk  so  beau 
tifully  or  dress  so  exquisitely.  The  sunlight  glit 
tered  in  her  hair. 

"I  don't  mean  that  at  all,"  said  Imogen;  "al 
though  I  don't  fancy  that  you  are  interested  so 
deeply,  and  in  so  many  things,  as  I  am. ' ' 

' '  Now,  really !  Why  not  ?  You  have  n  't  given 
me  a  chance  to  show  you.  Of  course  I  'm  not 
clever. ' ' 

"I  meant  nothing  petty,  like  cleverness." 


234  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

' '  You  mean  that  I  don 't  take  life  seriously  enough 
to  please  you  ? ' ' 

"Not  that,  exactly.  It  's  that  we  face  in  opposite 
directions,  as  it  were.  Life  is  n't  to  you  what  it  is 
to  me,  it  is  n't  to  you  such  a  big,  beautiful  thing, 
with  so  many  wonderful  vistas  in  it— such  far,  high 
peaks. ' ' 

She  was  very  grave  now,  and  the  gravity,  the  as 
surance,  and,  with  them,  the  sweetness,  of  this  young 
girl  were  charming  and  perplexing  to  Sir  Basil. 
Girls  so  assured  he  had  found  harsh,  disagreeable 
and,  almost  always,  ugly;  they  had  been  the  sort  of 
girl  one  avoided.  And  girls  so  lovely  had  usually 
been  coy  and  foolish.  This  girl  walked  like  a  queen, 
looked  at  one  like  a  philosopher,  smiled  at  one  like 
an  angel.  He  fixed  his  mind  on  her  last  words,  ral 
lying  his  sense  of  quizzical  paternity  to  meet  such- 
disconcerting  statements. 

"Well,  but  you  are  very  young;  life  looks  like 
that — peaks,  you  know,  and  vistas,  and  all  the  rest 
—when  one  is  young.  You  Ve  not  had  time  to  find 
it  out,  to  be  disappointed, ' '  said  Sir  Basil. 

Imogen's  calm  eye  rested  upon  him,  and  even  be~ 
fore  she  spoke  he  knew  that  he  had  made  a  very 
false  step.  It  was  as  if,  sunken  to  the  knees  in  his 
foolish  bog,  he  stood  before  her  while  she  replied: 

"Ah,  it  's  that  that  is  shallow  in  you,  or,  let  us 
say,  undeveloped,  still  to  be  able  to  think  of  life  in 
those  terms.  They  are  the  thoughts  of  an  unawak- 
ened  person,  and  some  people,  I  know,  go  all  through 
life  without  awaking.  You  imagine,  I  suppose,  that 
I  think  of  life  as  something  that  is  going  to  give  me 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  235 

happiness,  to  fulfil  sentimental',  girlish  dreams.  You 
are  mistaken.  I  have  known  bitter  disappointments, 
bitter  losses,  bitter  shatterings  of  hope.  But  life  is 
wonderful  and  beautiful  to  me  because  we  can  be  our 
best  and  do  our  best  in  it,  and  for  it,  if  we  try.  It  's  an 
immense  adventure  of  the  soul,  an  adventure  that 
can  disappoint  only  in  the  frivolous  sense  you  were 
thinking  of.  Such  joys  are  not  the  objects  of  our 
quest.  One  is  disappointed  with  oneself,  often,  for 
falling  so  short  of  one's  vision,  and  people  whom  we 
love  and  trust  may  fail  us  and  give  us  piercing  pain ; 
but  life,  in  all  its  oneness,  is  good  and  beautiful  if  we 
wake  to  its  deepest  reality  and  give  our  hearts  to  the 
highest  that  we  know." 

She  spoke  sadly,  softly,  surely,  thinking  of  her  own 
deep  wounds,  and  to  speak  such  words  was  almost 
like  repeating  a  familiar  lesson, — how  often  she  had 
heard  them  on  her  father's  lips,— and  Sir  Basil  lis 
tened,  while  he  looked  at  the  golden  head,  at  the 
white  hand  stretched  out  now  and  then  to  put  aside 
a  branch  or  sapling — listened  with  an  amazement 
half  baffled  and  wholly  admiring.  He  had  never 
heard  a  girl  talk  like  that.  He  had  heard  such 
words  before,  often,  of  course,  but  they  had  never 
sounded  like  this;  they  seemed  fresh,  and  sparkling 
with  a  heavenly  dew,  spoken  so  quietly,  with  such 
indifference  to  their  effect,  such  calmness  of  convic 
tion.  The  first  impression  of  her,  that  always  hov 
ered  near,  grew  more  strongly  upon  him.  There  was 
something  heavenly  about  this  girl.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  heard  an  angel  singing  in  the  woods,  and  a 
feeling  of  humility  stole  over  him.  It  was  usual  for 


236  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Sir  Basil,  who  rarely  thought  about  himself,  to  feel 
modest,  but  very  unusual  for  him  to  feel  humble. 

"You  make  me  believe  it,  when  you  say  it,"  he 
murmured.  "  I  'm  afraid  you  think  me  a  dreadfully 
earthy,  commonplace  person." 

Imogen,  at  the  change  of  note  in  his  voice,  looked 
round  at  him,  more  really  aware  of  him  than  she  had 
been  at  all,  and  when  she  met  his  glance  the  proph 
et's  calm  fervor  rose  in  her  to  answer  the  faith  that 
she  felt  in  him.  She  paused,  letting  him  come 
abreast  of  her  in  the  narrow  path,  and  they  both 
stood  still,  looking  at  each  other. 

' '  You  are  not  earthy ;  you  are  not  commonplace, ' ' 
said  Imogen,  then,  as  a  result  of  her  contemplation. 
"I  believe  that  you  are  a  very  big  person,  Sir  Basil." 

"A  big  person?  How  do  you  mean?"  He  abso 
lutely  flushed,  half  abashed,  half  delighted. 

Imogen  continued  to  gaze,  clearly  and  deeply. 
"There  are  all  sorts  of  possibilities  in  you." 

"Oh,  come  now!  At  my  age!  Why,  any  possi 
bilities  are  over,  except  for  a  cheerful  kind  of  veg 
etating.  ' ' 

"You  have  vegetated  all  your  life,  I  can  see  that. 
No  one  has  ever  waked  you.  You  have  hardly  used 
your  soul  at  all.  It  's  with  you  as  it  is  with  your 
country,  whose  life  is  built  strongly  and  sanely  with 
body  and  brain  but  who  has  not  felt  nationally,  as  a 
whole,  its  spirit.  Like  it,  you  have  a  spirit ;  like  it, 
you  are  full  of  possibilities." 

"Miss  Upton,  you  are  n't  like  anybody  I  've  ever 
known.  What  sort  of  possibilities?" 

She  walked  on  now,  feeling  his  thrill  echo  in  her- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  237 

self,  symptomatic  of  the  passing  forth  of  power  and 
its  return  as  enrichment  of  life  and  inspiration  to 
helpfulness.  "Of  service,"  she  said.  "Of  devotion 
to  great  needs;  courage  in  great  causes.  I  don't 
think  that  you  have  ever  had  a  chance." 

Sir  Basil,  keeping  his  eyes  on  her  straight,  pale 
profile,  groping  and  confused  in  this  new  flood  of 
light,  wondered  if  he  had. 

"You  are  an  extraordinary  young  woman,"  he 
said  at  last.  "You  make  me  believe  in  everything 
you  say,  though  it  's  so  awfully  queer,  you  know,  to 
think  in  that  way  about  myself.  If  you  talk  to  me 
often  like  this,  about  needs  and  causes,  will  it  give 
me  more  of  a  chance,  do  you  think  ? ' ' 

' '  We  must  all  win  to  the  light  for  ourselves, ' '  said 
Imogen  very  gently,  ' '  but  we  can  help  one  another. ' ' 

They  had  come  now  to  the  edge  of  the  wood  and 
out  upon  the  white  road  that  curved  from  the  village 
up  to  the  blue  of  the  hills  they  had  descended.  A 
tiny  brook  ran  with  a  sharp,  silvery  tinkle  on  its 
farther  edge  and  it  was  bordered  by  a  light  barrier 
of  white  railing.  Beyond  were  spacious,  half-culti 
vated  meadows,  stretched  out  for  miles  in  the  lap  of 
low-lying  hills. 

Serene  yet  inhuman  the  landscape  looked,  a  back 
ground  to  the  thinnest  of  histories,  significant  only 
of  its  own  dreaming  solitude ;  and  the  village,  among 
its  elms,  a  little  farther  on,  suggested  the  barest  past, 
the  most  barren  future.  The  road  led  on  into  its 
main  street,  where  the  elms  made  a  stately  avenue, 
arching  over  scattered  frame  houses  of  buff  and  gray 
and  white.  Imogen  told  Sir  Basil  that  some  of  these 


238  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

houses  were  old,  and  pointed  out  an  austere  classic 
facade  with  pediment  and  pillars ;  explained  to  him, 
too,  the  pathetic  condition  of  so  much  of  abandoned 
New  England.  Sir  Basil  was  thinking  more  of  her 
last  words  in  the  woods  than  of  local  color,  but  he 
had,  while  he  listened,  a  fairly  definite  impression 
of  pinchbeck  shops;  of  shabby  awnings  slanting  in 
the  sunlight  over  heaps  of  tumbled  fruit  and  vege 
tables;  of  "buggies,"  slip-shod,  with  dust- whitened 
wheels,  the  long-tailed,  long-maned,  slightly  har 
nessed  horses  hitched  to  posts  along  the  pavements. 
The  faces  that  passed  were  indolent  yet  eager.  The 
jaws  of  many  worked  mechanically  at  some  unap- 
peasing  task  of  mastication. 

Sir  Basil  had  traveled  since  his  arrival  in 
America,  had  seen  the  luxuries  of  the  Atlantic  sea- 
coast,  the  purposeful  energy  of  Chicago,  California's 
Eden-like  abundance,  and  had  seen  other  New  Eng 
land  villages  where  beauty  was  cherished  and  made 
permanent.  He  hardly  needed  Imogen's  further 
comments  to  establish  his  sense  of  contrast. 

' '  This  was  always  a  poor  enough  little  place.  Any 
people  who  made  it  count  left  it  long  ago.  But  even 
here,"  she  went  on,  "even  in  its  stagnation,  one  can 
find  some  of  the  things  we  care  for  in  our  country, 
some  of  the  things  we  live  for. ' ' 

Some  of  these  things  seemed  personified  in  the 
figure  of  the  young  woman  who  met  them  in  the 
girls'  club,  among  the  shelves  of  books  and  the 
numerous  framed  photographs  from  the  old  masters. 
Imogen  introduced  Sir  Basil  to  her  and  he  watched 
her  with  interest  while  she  and  Imogen  discussed 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  239 

some  business  matters.  She  was  slender  and  up 
right,  perhaps  too  upright;  she  was,  in  manner,  un 
affected  and  assured,  perhaps  too  assured,  but  that 
Sir  Basil  did  not  observe.  He  found  her  voice  un 
pleasant  and  her  pronunciation  faulty,  but  thought 
that  she  expressed  herself  with  great  force  and 
fluency.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  skin  sallow,  she 
smiled  gravely,  and  her  calmness  and  her  smile 
reminded  Sir  Basil  a  little  of  Imogen ;  perhaps  they 
were  racial.  She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  gray  cotton 
frock  with  neat  lawn  collar  and  cuffs,  and  her  hair 
was  raised  in  a  lustrous  "pompadour,"  a  wide  comb 
traversing  it  behind  and  combs  at  the  sides  of  her 
head  upholding  it  in  front.  Toward  Sir  Basil  she 
behaved  with  gracious  stateliness  of  demeanor,  so 
that  he  wondered  anew  at  the  anomalies  of  a  country 
of  ideals  where  a  young  person  so  well-appearing 
should  not  be  asked  to  dinner. 

Several  other  girls  came  in  while  they  were  there, 
and  they  all  surrounded  Imogen  with  eager  famil 
iarity  of  manner;  all  displayed  toward  himself,  as 
he  was  introduced,  variations  of  Miss  Hickson's 
stateliness.  He  thought  it  most  delightful  and  inter 
esting  and  the  young  women  very  remarkable  per 
sons.  One  discordant  note,  only,  was  struck  in  the 
harmony,  and  that  discord  was  barely  discerned  by 
his  untrained,  ear.  While  Imogen  was  talking,  a  girl 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  hesitated,  then,  with  an 
indifferent  and  forbidding  manner,  strolled  across 
the  room  to  the  book-shelves,  where  she  selected  a 
book,  strolling  out  again  with  the  barest  nod  of  sullen 
recognition.  She  was  a  swarthy  girl,  robust  and 


240  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ample  of  form,  with 'black  eyes  and  dusky  cheeks. 
Her  torn  red  blouse  and  untidy  hair  marked  her 
out  from  the  sleek  and  social  group.  Sir  Basil 
thought  her  very  interesting  looking.  He  asked 
Imogen,  as  they  walked  away  under  the  elms,  who 
she  was.  ' '  That  artistic  young  person,  with  the  dark 
hair." 

"Artistic?  Do  you  mean  Mattie  Smith?— the 
girl  with  the  bad  manners  1 ' '  asked  Imogen,  smiling 
tolerantly. 

"Yes,  she  looked  like  a  clever  young  person.  She 
belongs  to  the  club  1 ' ' 

"She  hardly  counts  as  one  of  its  members,  though 
we  welcome  everyone,  and,  like  all  the  girls  of  the 
village,  she  enjoys  the  use  of  our  library.  She  is  not 
clever,  however.  She  is  an  envious  and  a  rather  ill- 
tempered  girl,  with  very  little  of  the  spirit  of  sister 
hood  in  her.  And  she  nurses  her  defect  of  isolation 
and  self-sufficiency.  I  hope  that  we  may  win  her 
over  to  wider,  sweeter  outlooks  some  day. ' ' 

Mattie  Smith,  however,  was  one  of  the  people  upon 
whom  Imogen  wasted  no  smiles.  On  the  Uptons  first 
coming  to  spend  their  summers  near  Hamborough, 
Imogen  had  found  this  indolent  yet  forcible  person 
ality  barring  her  path  of  benignant  activity.  Mattie 
Smith,  unaided,  undirected,  ignorant  of  the  Time 
Spirit's  high  demands  upon  the»  individual, 
had  already  formed  a  club  of  sorts,  a  tawdry  little 
room  hung  with  bright  bunting  and  adorned  with 
colored  pictures  from  the  cheaper  magazines,  pic 
tures  of  over-elegant,  amorously  inclined  young 
couples  in  ball-rooms  or  on  yachts  and  beaches. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  241 

Here  the  girls  read  poor  literature,  played  games, 
made  candy  over  the  stove  and  gossiped  about  their 
young  men.  Imogen  deeply  disapproved  of  the 
place ;  its  ventilation  was  atrocious  and  its  moral  in 
fluence  harmful ;  it  relaxed  and  did  not  discipline, — 
so  she  had  expressed  it  to  her  father.  It  soon  with 
ered  under  her  rival  beams.  Mattie  Smith's  members 
drifted  by  degrees  into  the  more  advantageous  alli 
ance.  Mattie  Smith  had  resented  this  triumphant 
placing  of  the  higher  standard  and  took  pains,  as 
Imogen,  with  the  calm  displeasure  of  the  successful, 
observed,  to  make  difficulties  for  her  and  to  treat 
her  with  ostentatious  disregard.  Imogen  guessed 
very  accurately  at  the  seething  of  anger  and  jealousy 
that  bubbled  in  Mattie  Smith 's  breast ;  it  was  typical 
of  so  much  of  the  lamentable  spirit  displayed  by  rudi 
mentary  natures  when  feeling  the  pressure  of  an 
ideal  they  did  not  share  or  when  brought  into  con 
tact  with  a  more  finished  manner  of  life  from  which 
they  were  excluded.  Imogen,  too,  could  not  have 
borne  a  rival  ascendancy;  but  she  was  ascendant 
through  right  divine,  and,  while  so  acutely  under 
standing  Mattie  Smith's  state  of  mind,  she  could  not 
recognize  a  certain  sameness  of  nature.  She  hoped 
that  Mattie  Smith  would  "grow,"  but  she  felt  that, 
essentially,  she  was  not  of  the  sort  from  which 
' '  hers ' '  were  made. 


XVIII 

was  almost  four  o'clock  by  the  time 
that  Imogen  and  Sir  Basil  reached  the 
summit  of  one  of  the  lower  hills,  and, 
among  the  trees,  came  upon  the  white 
glimmer  of  the  Upton's  summer  home. 
It  stood  in  a  wide  clearing  surrounded  on  three  sides 
by  the  woods,  the  higher  ranges  rising  about  it,  its 
lawn  running  down  to  slopes  of  long  grass,  thick 
with  tall  daisies  and  buttercups.  Farther  on  was 
an  orchard,  and  then,  beyond  the  dip  of  a  valley, 
the  blue,  undulating  distance,  bathed  in  a  crystalline 
quivering.  The  house,  of  rough  white  stucco,  had 
lintels  and  window-frames  of  dark  wood,  a  roof  of 
gray  shingles,  and  bright  green  shutters.  A  wide 
veranda  ran  around  it,  wreathed  in  vines  and  creep 
ers,  and  borders  of  flowers  grew  to  the  edges  of  the 
woods.  Sir  Basil  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
anything  prettier.  Valerie,  dressed  in  thin  black, 
was  sitting  on  the  veranda,  and  beside  her  Miss 
Bocock,  still  in  traveling  dress,  looked  incongruously 
ungraceful.  She  had  arrived  an  hour  before  with  the 
Pottses,  who  had  gone  to  their  rooms,  and  said,  in 
answer  to  Imogen's  kindly  queries,  that  the  journey 
had  n't  been  bad,  though  the  train  was  very  stuffy. 

242 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  243 

Then  it  appeared  that  Miss  Bocock  and  Sir  Basil 
were  acquainted;  they  recollected  each  other,  shook 
hands  heartily,  and  asked  and  answered  local  ques 
tions.  Miss  Bocock 's  people  lived  not  so  many  miles 
from  Thremdon  Hall,  and,  though  she  had  been 
little  at  home  of  late  years,  she  and  Sir  Basil  had 
country  memories  in  common.  She  said  presently 
that  she,  too,  would  like  to  tidy  for  the  tea,  and 
Imogen,  taking  her  to  her  room,  sat  with  her  while 
she  smoothed  out  one  section  of  her  hair  and 
tonged  the  other,  and  while  she  put  on  a 
very  stiff  holland  skirt  and  a  blouse  distress 
ing  to  Imogen's  sensitive  taste,  a  crude  pink 
blouse,  irrelevantly  adorned  about  the  shoulders 
with  a  deep  frill  of  imitation  lace.  While  she 
dressed  she  talked,  in  her  higtt-p  itched,  cheerful 
voice,  of  the  recent  very  successful  lectures  she  had 
given  in  Boston  and  the  acquaintances  she  had  made 
there. 

"I  hope  that  my  letters  of  introduction  proved 
useful,"  said  Imogen.  She  considered  Miss  Bocock 
her  protegee,  but  Miss  Bocock,  very  vexatiously, 
seemed  always  oblivious  of  that  fact ;  so  that  Imogen, 
though  feeling  that  she  had  secured  a  guest  who 
conferred  luster,  could  n't  resist,  now  and  then,  try 
ing  to  bring  her  to  a  slightly  clearer  sense  of  obliga 
tion. 

Miss  Bocock  said  that,  yes,  they  had  been  very 
useful,  and  Imogen  watched  her  select  from  the 
graceful  nosegay  on  her  dressing-table  two  red  roses 
which  she  pinned  to  her  pink  blouse  with  a  heavy 
silver  brooch  representing,  in  an  encircling  bough, 


£44  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

a  mother  bird  hovering  with  outstretched  wings  over 
a  precariously  placed  nest. 

' '  Let  me  get  you  a  white  rose, ' '  Imogen  suggested ; 
but  Miss  Bocock  said,  no,  thanks,  she  was  very  fond 
of  that  shade  of  red. 

' '  So  you  know  Sir  Basil, ' '  said  Imogen,  repressing 
her  sense  of  irritation. 

"Know  him?  Yes,  of  course.  Everybody  in 
the  county  knows  him.  He  is  the  big  man  there 
abouts,  you  see.  The  old  squire,  his  father,  was  very 
fond  of  my  father,  and  we  go  to  a  garden-party  at 
the  hall  once  a  year  or  so.  It  's  a  nice  old  place." 

Imogen  felt  some  perplexity.  "But  if  your  father 
and  his  were  such  friends  why  don't  you  see  more  of 
each  other?" 

Miss  Bocock  looked  cheerfully  at  her.  "Why,  be 
cause  he  is  big  and  we  are  n't.  We  are  middle-class 
and  he  very  much  upper ;  it  's  a  very  old  family,  the 
Thremdons,— I  forget  for  how  many  generations 
they  have  been  in  Surrey.  Now  my  dear  old  dad 
was  only  a  country  doctor,"  Miss  Bocock  went  on, 
seated  in  a  rocking-chair — she  liked  rocking-chairs — 
with  her  knees  crossed,  her  horribly  shaped  patent- 
leather  shoes  displayed  and  her  clear  eyes,  through 
their  glasses,  fixed  on  Imogen  while  she  made  these 
unshrinking  statements;  "and  a  country  doctor's 
family  has  n't  much  to  do  with  county  people." 

"What  an  ugly  thing,"  said  Imogen,  while, 
swiftly,  her  mind  adjusted  itself  to  this  new  seeing 
of  Miss  Bocock.  By  its  illumination  Miss  Bocock 's 
assurance  toward  herself  grew  more  irritating  than 
before,  and  the  fact  that  Miss  Bocock 's  flavor  was 
very  different  from  Sir  Basil's  became  apparent. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  245 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Bocock.  "It  's  a  natural 
crystallization.  You  are  working  toward  the  same 
sort  of  thing  over  here — only  not  in  such  a  whole 
some  way,  I  think." 

Imogen  flushed  a  little.  "Our  crystallizations, 
when  they  are  n't  artificially  brought  about  "by 
apings  of  your  civilization,  take  place  through  real 
superiority  and  fitness.  A  woman  of  your  intel 
lectual  ability  is  anybody's  equal  in  America." 

"Oh,  as  far  as  that  goes,  in  that  sense,  I  'm  any 
body's  equal  in  England,  too,"  said  Miss  Bocock, 
unperturbed  and  unimpressed. 

Imogen  rather  wished  she  could  make  her  feel 
that,  since  crystallizations  were  a  fact,  the  Uptons, 
in  that  sense,  were  as  much  above  her  as  the  Threm- 
dons.  Idealist  democrat  as  she  counted  herself,  she 
had  these  quick  glances  at  a  standard  kept,  as  it 
were,  for  private  use ;  as  if,  from  under  an  altar  in 
the  temple  of  humanity,  its  priest  were  to  draw  out 
for  some  personal  reassurance  a  hidden  yard- 
measure. 

Tea,  when  they  went  down  again,  was  served 
on  the  veranda  and  Imogen  could  observe,  during 
its  progress,  that  Miss  Bocock  showed  none  of  the 
disposition  to  fawn  on  Sir  Basil  that  one  might  have 
expected  from  a  person  of  the  middle-class.  She 
contradicted  him  as  cheerfully  as  she  did  Imogen 
herself. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Potts  had  gone  for  a  little  ramble 
in  the  lower  woods,  but  they  soon  appeared,  Mr. 
Potts  seating  himself  limply  on  the  steps  and  fan 
ning  himself  with  his  broad  straw  hat— a  hat  that 
in  its  very  largeness  and  looseness  seemed  to  express 


246  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

the  inflexible  ideals  of  non-conformity—while  Mrs. 
Potts,  very  firmly  busked  and  bridled,  her  head  very 
sleek,  her  smile  very  tight,  took  a  chair  between 
Mrs.  Upton  and  Sir  Basil,  and  soon  showed,  in  her 
whole  demeanor,  a  consciousness  of  the  latter 's  small 
titular  decoration  that  placed  her  more  definitely 
for  Imogen's  eye  than  she  had  ever  been  placed  be 
fore.  The  Pottses  were  middle-class  with  a  ven 
geance.  Imogen's  irritation  grew  as  she  watched 
these  limpet-like  friends,  one  sprawling  and  ill-at- 
ease  for  all  his  careful  languor,  the  other  quite 
dreadfully  well-mannered,  sipping  her  tea,  arching 
her  brows  and  assuming  all  sorts  of  perilous  ele 
gancies  of  pronunciation  that  Imogen  had  never 
before  heard  her  attempt.  It  was  an  additional 
vexation  to  have  them  display  toward  herself,  with 
even  more  exaggeration  than  usual,  their  tenacious 
tenderness;  listening,  with  a  grave  turning  of  head 
and  eye  when  she  spoke,  and  receiving  each  remark 
with  an  over-emphasis  of  feeling  on  their  over- 
mobile  features. 

There  was,  indeed,  an  odd  irony  in  the  Pottses 
being  there  at  all.  They  had,  in  her  father's  life 
time,  only  been  asked  with  a  horde  of  their  kind, 
the  whole  uplifted  batch  thus  worked  off  together, 
and  Imogen  had  really  not  expected  her  mother  to 
agree  to  her  suggestion  that  they  should  be  invited 
to  pay  the  annual  visit  during  Sir  Basil's  stay.  She 
would  not  own  to  herself  that  her  suggestion  had 
been  made  from  a  vague  wish  to  put  her  mother  to 
a  test,  to  force  her  into  a  definite  declaration  against 
the  incongruous  guests;  she  had  thought  of  the 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  247 

suggestion,  rather,  as  an  upholding  of  her  father's 
banner  before  the  oncoming  betrayal ;  but,  instead  of 
refusal,  she  had  met  with  an  instant,  happy  acqui 
escence,  and  it  was  now  surely  the  climax  of  irony 
to  see  how  her  mother,  for  her  sake,  bore  with  them. 
More  than  for  her  sake,  perhaps.  Imogen  detected 
in  those  seemingly  indolent,  yet  so  observant,  eyes  a 
keen  reading  of  the  Pottses '  perturbed  condition,  and 
in  her  manner,  so  easy  and  so  apt,  the  sweetest, 
lightest  kindness.  She  turned  corners  and  drew  veils 
for  them,  spread  a  warm  haze  of  interest  and  serenity 
about  their  clumsy  and  obtruding  personalities. 
Imogen  could  even  see  that  the  Pottses  were  recon 
sidering,  with  some  confusion  of  mind,  their  old 
verdict  on  her  mother. 

This  realization  brought  to  her  brooding  thoughts 
a  sudden  pang  of  self-reproach.  It  would  n  't  do  for 
the  Pottses  to  find  in  her  mother  the  cordiality  they 
might  miss  in  herself.  She  confessed  that,  for  a 
moment,  she  had  allowed  the  banner  to  trail  in  the 
dust  of  worldly  thoughts,  the  banner  to  which  the 
Pottses,  poor  dears,  had  rallied  for  so  many  loyal 
years.  She  summoned  once  more  all  her  funds  of 
spiritual  appreciation  and  patience.  As  for  Miss 
Bocock,  she  made  not  the  slightest  attempt  to  talk 
to  the  Pottses.  She  had  come  up  with  them  from 
the  station, — they  had  not  found  each  other  on  the 
train,— and  she  had  probably  had  her  fill  of  them 
in  that  time.  Once  or  twice,  in  the  act  of  helping 
herself  plentifully  to  cake,  she  paused  to  listen  to 
them,  and  after  that  looked  away,  over  their  heads 
or  through  them,  as  if  she  finally  dismissed  them 


248  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

from,  the  field  of  her  attention.  Mrs.  Potts  was  ques 
tioning  Sir  Basil  about  his  possible  knowledge  of  her 
own  English  ancestry.  "We  came  over  in  the  May 
flower,  you  know, ' '  she  said. 

"Really,"  said  Sir  Basil,  all  courteous  interest. 

"The  Claremonts,  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Potts, 
modestly,  yet  firmly,  too.  "My  father  was  in  direct 
descent;  we  have  it  all  worked  out  in  our  family 
tree." 

"Oh,  really,"  said  Sir  Basil  again. 

"I  Ve  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Potts,  "that  your 
forebears  and  mine,  Sir  Basil,  were  friends  and  com 
rades  in  the  spacious  times  of  good  Queen  Bess." 

Imogen,  at  this,  glanced  swiftly  at  her  mother; 
but  she  caught  no  trace  of  wavering  on  that  mild 
countenance. 

"Oh,  well,  no,"  Sir  Basil  answered.  "My  people 
were  very  little  country  squires  in  those  days;  we 
did  n't  have  much  to  do  with  the  Dukes  of  Clare- 
mont.  We  only  began  to  go  up,  you  see,  a  good 
bit  after  you  were  on  the  top." 

Imogen  fixed  a  calm  but  a  very  cold  eye  upon  Mrs. 
Potts.  She  had  heard  of  the  Dukes  of  Claremont  for 
many  years ;  so  had  everybody  who  knew  Mrs.  Potts ; 
they  were  an  innocent,  an  ingrained  illusion  of  the 
good  lady's,  but  to-day  they  seemed  less  innocent  and 
more  irritating  than  usual.  Imogen  felt  that  she 
could  have  boxed  Mrs.  Potts 's  silly  ears.  In  Sir 
Basil's  pleasant  disclaimers,  too,  there  was  an  echo 
of  Miss  Bocock's  matter-of-fact  acknowledgments 
that  seemed  to  set  them  both  leagues  away  from  the 
Pottses  and  to  make  their  likeness  greater  than  their 
difference. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  249 

"Well,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Potts  was  going  on,  her 
pince-nez  and  all  her  small  features  mingled,  as  it 
were,  in  the  vividest  glitter,  "for  me,  I  confess,  it  's 
blood,  above  all  and  beyond  all,  that  counts ;  and  you 
and  I,  Sir  Basil,  know  that  it  is  in  the  squirearchy 
that  some  of  the  best  blood  in  England  is  found. 
We  don't  recognize  an  aristocracy  in  our  country, 
Sir  Basil,  but,  though  not  recognized,  it  rules,— blood 
must  rule;  one  often,  in  a  democracy,  feels  that  as 
one's  problem." 

"It  's  only  through  service  that  it  rules,"  Mr. 
Potts  suddenly  ejaculated  from  where  he  sat  doubled 
on  the  steps  looking  with  a  gloomy  gaze  into  the 
distance.  "Service;  service— that  's  our  watchword. 
Lend  a  hand." 

Imogen  saw  a  latent  boredom  piercing  Sir  Basil's 
affability.  Great  truths  uttered  by  some  lips  might 
be  made  to  seem  very  unefficacious.  She  proposed 
to  him  that  she  should  show  him  the  wonderful  dis 
play  of  mountain-laurel  that  grew  higher  up  among 
the  pine-woods.  He  rose  with  alacrity,  but  Mrs. 
Potts  rose  too.  Imogen  could  hardly  control  her 
vexation  when,  flipping  the  crumbs  from  her  lap 
and  smoothing  the  folds  at  her  waist,  she  declared 
that  she  was  just  in  the  humor  for  a  walk  and 
must  see  the  laurel  with  them. 

"You  must  n't  tire  yourself.  Would  n't  you 
rather  stay  and  have  another  cup  of  tea  and  talk  to 
me?"  Mrs.  Upton  interposed,  so  that  Imogen  felt 
a  dart  of  keen  gratitude  for  such  comprehension; 
but  Mrs.  Potts  was  not  to  be  turned  aside  from  her 
purpose.  "Thank  you  so  much,  dear  Mrs.  Upton," 
she  answered;  "we  must  have  many,  many  talks 


250  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

indeed;  but  I  do  want  to  see  my  precious  Imogen, 
and  to  see  the  laurel  with  her.  You  are  one  of  those 
rare  beings,  darling  Imogen,  with  whom  one  can 
share  nature.  Will  you  come,  too,  Delancy,  dear?" 
she  asked  her  husband,  "or  will  you  stay  and  talk 
to  Mrs.  Upton  and  Miss  Bocock  ?  I  'm  sure  that  they 
will  be  eager  to  hear  of  this  new  peace  committee  of 
ours  and  zestful  to  help  on  the  cause. ' ' 

Mr.  Potts  rather  sulkily  said  that  he  would  stay 
and  talk  to  Mrs.  Upton  and  Miss  Bocock  about  the 
committee,  and  Imogen  felt  that  it  was  in  a  manner 
of  atonement  to  him  for  her  monopolization  of  a 
lustrous  past  that  Mrs.  Potts  presently,  as  they  be 
gan  the  steep  ascent  along  a  winding,  mossy  path, 
told  Sir  Basil  that  her  husband,  too,  knew  the  re 
sponsibility  and  burden  of  "blood."  And  as,  for  a 
moment,  they  went  before  her,  Imogen  fancied  that 
she  heard  the  murmur  of  quite  a  new  great  name 
casting  its  aegis  about  Mr.  Potts.  Very  spiritual 
people  could,  she  reflected,  become  strangely  men 
dacious  when  borne  along  on  the  wings  of  ardor  and 
exaltation. 

Mrs.  Potts 's  presence  was  really  quite  intolerable, 
and,  as  she  walked  behind  her  and  listened  to  her 
murmur,  Imogen  bethought  her  of  an  amusing, 
though  rather  ruthless,  plan  of  elimination.  Imogen 
was  very  capable  of  ruthlessness  when  circumstances 
demanded  it.  Turning,  therefore,  suddenly  to  the 
right,  she  led  them  into  a  steep  and  rocky  path  that, 
as  she  well  knew,  would  eventually  prove  impassable 
to  Mrs.  Potts 's  short  legs  and  stiff,  fat  person.  In 
deed,  Mrs.  Potts  soon  began  to  pant  and  sigh.  Her 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  251 

recital  of  the  family  annals  became  disconnected; 
she  paused  to  take  off  and  rub  her  eyeglasses  and 
presently  asked,  in  extenuated  tones,  if  this  were  the 
usual  path  to  the  laurel. 

"It  's  the  one  I  always  take,  dear  Mrs.  Potts ;  it  's 
the  one  I  wanted  Sir  Basil  to  see,  it  's  so  far  the 
lovelier.  One  gets  the  most  wronderful,  steep  views 
down  into  far  depths  of  blue."  Imogen,  perched 
like  a  slender  Valkyrie  on  the  summit  of  a  crag 
above,  thus  addressed  her  perturbed  friend. 

She  could  n't  really  but  be  amused  by  Mrs.  Potts 's 
pertinacity,  for,  not  yet  relinquishing  her  purpose, 
she  continued,  in  silence  now,  her  lips  compressed, 
her  forehead  beaded  with  moisture,  to  scale  the  diffi 
cult  way,  showing  a  resolute  nimbleness  amazing  in 
one  so  ill-formed  for  feats  of  agility.  Sir  Basil  gave 
her  a  succoring  hand  while  Imogen  soared  ahead, 
confident  of  the  moment  when  Mrs.  Potts,  perforce, 
must  fall  back. 

' '  Tiresome  woman ! ' '  she  thought,  but  she  could  n  't 
help  smiling  while  she  thought  it,  and  heard  Mrs. 
Potts 's  deep  breath  laboring  up  behind  her.  It  was, 
perhaps,  rather  a  shame  to  balk  her  in  this  way; 
but,  after  all,  she  was  to  have  a  full  fortnight  of 
Sir  Basil  and  she,  Imogen,  felt  that  on  this  day,  the 
day  of  a  new  friendship,  Sir  Basil's  claim  on  her 
was  paramount.  She  had  something  for  him,  a  light, 
a  strengthening,  and  she  must  keep  the  hour  sacred 
to  that  stir  of  awakening.  Among  the  pines  and 
laurels  she  would  say  a  few  more  words  of  help  to 
him.  So  that  Mrs.  Potts  must  be  made  to  go. 

The  moment  came.    A  shoulder  of  rock  overhung 


2CK  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

the  way  and  the  only  passage  was  over  its  almost 
perpendicular  surface.  Imogen,  as  if  unconscious 
of  difficulty,  with  a  stride,  a  leap,  a  swift  clutch  of 
her  firm  white  hand,  was  at  the  top,  smiling  down 
at  them  and  saying :  ' '  Now  here  the  view  is  our  very 
loveliest.  One  looks  down  for  miles." 

"But— my  dear  Imogen— is  there  no  other  way, 
round  it,  perhaps?"  Mrs.  Potts  looked  desperately 
into  the  thick  underbrush  on  either  side. 

"No  other  way,"  said  Imogen.  "But  you  can 
manage  it.  This  is  only  the  beginning,— there  's 
some  real  climbing  farther  on.  Put  your  foot  where 
I  did— no,  higher— near  the  little  fern— your  hand 
here,  look,  do  you  see?  Take  a  firm  hold  of  that- 
then  a  good  spring — and  here  you  are." 

Poor  Mrs.  Potts  laid  a  faltering  hand  on  the  high 
ledge  that  was  only  a  first  stage  in  the  chamois-like 
feat,  and  Imogen  saw  unwilling  relinquishment  in 
her  eye. 

"I  don't  see  as  I  can  do  it,"  she,  murmured,  re 
lapsing,  in  her  distress,  into  a  helpless  vernacular. 

"Oh,  yes,  this  is  nothing.  Sir  Basil  will  give  you 
a  push.  I  '11  pull  you  and  he  will  push  you,"  Imo 
gen,  with  kindest  solicitude,  suggested. 

"Oh,  I  don't  see  as  I  can,"  Mrs.  Potts  repeated, 
looking  rather  wild  at  the  vision  of  such  a  push. 
She  did  n't  at  all  lend  herself  to  pushes,  and  yet, 
facing  even  the  indignities  of  that  method,  she  did, 
though  faltering,  place  herself  in  position;  did  lay 
a  desperate  hold  of  the  high  ledge,  place  her  small, 
fat,  tightly  buttoned  foot  high  beside  the  fern ;  allow 
Sir  Basil,  with  a  hand  under  each  armpit,  to  kindly 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  253 

count  "One-two-three— now  for  it!"— did  even,  at 
the  word  of  command,  make  a  passionate  jump,  only 
to  lose  hold,  scrape  lamentably  down  the  surface  of 
the  rock,  and  collapse  into  his  arms. 

"Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry!"  said  Imogen,  looking  down 
upon  them  while  Sir  Basil  placed  Mrs.  Potts  upon 
her  feet,  and  while  Mrs.  Potts,  angered  almost  to 
tears,  rubbed  with  her  handkerchief  at  the  damage 
done  to  her  dress.  "I  'm  so  very  sorry,  dear  Mrs. 
Potts.  I  see  that  it  is  a  little  too  steep  for  you.  And 
I  did  so  want  you  to  see  this  view. ' ' 

"I  shall  have  to  go  back.  I  am  very  tired,  quite 
exhausted,"  said  Mrs.  Potts,  in  a  voice  that  slightly 
shook.  "I  wish  you  had  taken  the  usual  path.  I 
never  dreamed  that  we  were  setting  out  on  such  a — 
such  a  violent  expedition." 

"But  this  is  my  usual  path,"  said  Imogen,  open 
ing  her  eyes.  "I  've  never  found  it  hard.  And  I 
wanted  you  and  Sir  Basil  to  see  my  view.  But,  dear 
Mrs.  Potts,  letjue  go  back  with  you.  Sir  Basil  won't 
mind  finding  his  way  alone,  I  'm  sure." 

"Oh,  no,  thanks!  No,  I  could  n't  think  of  spoil 
ing  your  walk.  No,  I  will  go  back, ' '  and  Mrs.  Potts, 
turning  away,  began  to  retrace  her  steps. 

"Be  sure  and  lie  down  and  rest;  take  a  little  nap 
before  dinner,"  Imogen  called  after  her. 

Mrs.  Potts  disappeared,  and  Imogen,  when  she 
and  Sir  Basil  stood  together  on  the  fortunate  ob 
stacle,  said:  "Poor,  excellent  creature.  I  am  sorry. 
She  is  displeased  with  me.  I  ought  to  have  remem 
bered  that  this  was  too  rough  for  her  and  taken  the 
other  path."  Indeed,  she  had  felt  rather  guilty  as 


254  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Mrs.  Potts 's  back,  the  ridge  of  its  high  stays  strongly 
marked  by  the  slanting  sunlight,  descended  among 
the  sylvan  scenery. 

"Yes,  and  she  did  so  want  to  come,  awfully  keen  on 
it,"  said  Sir  Basil;  "but  I  hope  you  won't  think  me 
very  brutal  if  I  confess  that  /  'm  not  sorry.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you,  you  see,"  Sir  Basil  beamed. 

' '  I  would  rather  talk  to  you,  too, ' '  Imogen  smiled. 
"My  good  old  friend  can  be  very  wearisome.  But  it 
was  thoughtless  of  me  to  have  brought  her  on  this 
way. ' ' 

They  rested  for  a  little  while  on  their  rock,  look 
ing  down  into  the  distance  that  was,  indeed,  worth 
any  amount  of  climbing.  And  afterward,  when  they 
reached  the  fairyland  where  the  laurel  drifted 
through  the  pine  woods,  and  as  she  quoted  "Wood- 
Notes"  to  him  and  pointed  out  to  him  the  delicate 
splendors  of  the  polished  green,  the  clear,  cold  pink, 
en  a  background  of  gray  rock,  Imogen  could  but 
feel  her  little  naughtiness  well  justified.  It  was  de 
lightful  to  be  there  in  solitude  with  Sir  Basil,  and 
the  sense  of  sympathy  that  grew  between  her  and 
this  supplanter  of  her  father's  was  strange,  but  not 
unsweet.  It  was  n't  only  that  she  could  help  him, 
and  that  that  was  always  a  claim  to  which  one  must 
respond,  but  she  liked  helping  him. 

On  the  downward  way,  a  little  tired  from  the 
rapidity  of  her  ascent,  she  often  gave  her  hand  to 
Sir  Basil  as  she  leaped  from  rock  to  rock,  and  they 
smiled  at  each  other  without  speaking,  already  like 
the  best  of  friends. 

That  evening,  as  she  was  going  down  to  dinner, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  255 

Imogen  met  her  mother  on  the  stairs.  They  spoke 
little  to  each  other  during  these  days.  Imogen  felt 
that  her  neutrality  of  attitude  could  best  be  main 
tained  by  silence. 

"Mrs.  Potts  came  back,"  her  mother  said,  smiling 
a  little,  and,  Imogen  fancied,  with  the  old  touch  of 
timidity  that  she  remembered  in  her.  "She  said 
that  you  took  her  on  a  most  fearful  climb." 

"What  foolishness,  poor  dear  Mrs.  Potts!  I  took 
her  along  the  upper  path." 

"The  upper  path?  Is  there  an  upper  path?" 
Mrs.  Upton  descended  beside  her  daughter.  "I 
thought  that  it  was  the  usual  path  that  had  proved 
too  much  for  her. ' ' 

"I  wanted  them  to  see  the  view  from  the  rock," 
said  Imogen;  "I  forgot  that  poor  Mrs.  Potts  would 
find  it  too  difficult  a  climb. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  remember,  now,  the  rock!  That  is  a  diffi 
cult  climb, ' '  said  Mrs.  Upton. 

Imogen  wondered  if  her  mother  guessed  at  why 
Mrs.  Potts  had  been  taken  on  it.  She  must  feel  it 
of  good  augury,  if  she  did,  that  her  daughter  should 
already  like  Sir  Basil  enough  to  indulge  in  such  an 
uncharitable  freak.  Imogen  felt  her  color  rise  a 
little  as  she  suspected  herself  and  her  motives  re 
vealed.  It  was  not  that  she  was  n't  quite  ready  to 
own  to  a  friendship  with  Sir  Basil;  but  she  did  n't 
want  friendship  to  be  confused  with  condonation, 
and  she  did  n't  like  her  mother  to  guess  that  she 
could  use  Mrs.  Potts  uncharitably. 


XIX 

ER  magnanimity  toward  Jack— so 
Imogen  more  and  more  clearly  saw  it 
to  have  been— at  the  time  of  their 
parting,  had  made  it  inevitable  that 
he  should  hold  to  his  engagement  to 
visit  them  that  summer,  and  even  because  of  that 
magnanimity,  she  felt,  in  thinking  over  again  and 
again  the  things  that  Jack  had  said  of  her  and  to 
her,  a  deepening  of  the  cold  indignation  that  the 
magnanimity  had  quelled  at  the  moment  of  his 
speaking  them.  Mingling  with  the  sense  of  snapped 
and  bleeding  ties  was  a  longing,  irrepressible,  pro 
found,  violent,  that  he  might  be  humiliated,  pun 
ished,  brought  to  his  knees  in  penitence  and  abase 
ment. 

Her  friendship  with  Sir  Basil,  his  devotion  to  her, 
must  be,  though  by  no  means  humiliating,  something 
of  a  coal  of  fire  laid  on  Jack's  traitorous  head;  and 
she  saw  at  once  that  he  was  pleased,  touched,  but  per 
plexed,  by  what  must  seem  to  him  an  unforeseen 
smoothing  of  her  mother's  path.  He  was  there,  she 
guessed,  far  more  to  see  that  her  mother's  path  was 
made  smooth  than  to  try  and  straighten  out  their 
own  twisted  and  separate  ways.  He  had  come  for 

256 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  257 

her  mother,  not  for  her;  and  Imogen  did  not  know 
whether  it  was  more  pain  or  anger  that  the  realiza 
tion  gave  her. 

What  puzzled  him,  what  must  have  puzzled  her 
mother,  must  puzzle,  indeed,  anyone  who  perceived 
it, — except,  no  doubt,  the  innocent  Sir  Basil  him 
self, — was  that  this  friendship  took  up  most  of  Sir 
Basil's  time. 

To  Sir  Basil  she  stood  for  something  lofty  and 
exquisite  that  did  not,  of  course,  clash  with  more 
rudimentary,  if  deeper,  affections,  but  that,  perforce, 
made  them  stand  aside  for  the  little  interlude  where 
it  soared  and  sang.  There  was,  for  Imogen,  a  sharp 
sweetness  in  this  fact  and  in  Jack's  bewildered  ap 
preciation  of  it,  though  for  her  own  consciousness 
the  triumph  was  no  satisfying  one.  After  all,  of 
what  use  was  it  to  soar  and  sing  if  Sir  Basil  were  to 
drop  to  earth  so  inevitably  and  so  soon  ?  Outwardly, 
at  all  events,  this  unforeseen  change  in  the  situation 
gave  her  all  the  advantage  in  her  meeting  with  Jack. 
She  was  not  the  reproved  and  isolated  creature  that 
he  might  have  expected  to  find.  She  was  not  the 
helpless  girl,  subjugated  by  an  alien  mother  and 
cast  off  by  a  faithless  lover.  No;  calm,  benignant, 
lovely,  she  had  turned  to  other  needs;  one  was  not 
helpless  while  one  helped;  not  small  when  others 
looked  up  to  one. 

Under  her  calm  was  the  lament ;  under  her  unfal 
tering  smile,  the  loneliness  and  the  burning  of  that 
bitter  indignation ;  but  Jack  could  not  guess  at  that, 
and  if  both  felt  difficulty  in  the  neatly  balanced 
friendship  pledged  under  the  wisteria,  if  there  was 

17 


258  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

a  breathlessness  for  both  in  the  tight-rope  perform 
ance, — where  one  false  step  might  topple  one  over 
into  open  hostility,  or  else,  who  knew,  into  complete 
surrender,  —  it  was  Imogen  who  gained  composure 
from  Jack's  nervousness,  and  while  he  walked  the 
rope  with  a  fluttering  breath  and  an  anxious  eye 
she  herself  could  show  the  most  graceful  slides  and 
posturings  in  midair. 

It  was  evident  enough  to  everybody  that  the  rela 
tion  was  a  changed,  a  precarious  one,  but  all  the 
seeming  danger  was  Jack's  alone. 

Imogen,  while  she  swung  and  balanced,  often 
found  her  mother's  eye  fixed  on  her  with  a  deep 
preoccupation,  and  guessed  that  it  was  owing  to  her 
mother's  tactics  that  most  of  her  tete-d-tetes  with 
Jack  were  due.  Her  poor  mother  might  imagine 
that  she  thus  secured  the  solid  foundation  of  the 
earth  for  their  footsteps,  but  Imogen  knew  that  never 
was  the  rope  so  dizzily  swung  as  when  she  and  Jack 
were  thus  gently  coerced  into  solitude  together. 

It  was,  however,  a  few  days  after  Jack's  arrival, 
and  a  few  days  before  the  Pottses'  departure,  that 
an  interest  came  to  her  of  such  an  absorbing  nature 
that  it  wrapped  her  mind  away  from  the  chill  or 
scorching  sense  of  her  own  wrongs.  It  was  with 
the  Pottses  that  the  plan  originated,  and  though  the 
Pottses  were  proving  more  trying  than  they  had 
ever  been,  they  caught  some  of  the  radiance  of  their 
own  proposal.  As  instruments  in  a  great  purpose, 
she  could  look  upon  them  more  patiently,  though, 
more  than  ever,  it  would  need  tact  to  prevent  them 
from  shadowing  the  brightness  that  they  offered. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  259 

The  plan,  apparently,  had  been  with  them  for  some 
time,  its  disclosure  delayed  until  the  moment  suited  to 
its  seriousness  and  sanctity,  and  it  was  then,  between 
the  three,  mapped  out  and  discussed  carefully  before 
they  felt  it  ripe  for  further  publicity.  Then  it  was 
Imogen  who  told  them  that  the  time  had  come  for 
the  unfolding  to  her  mother,  and  Imogen  who  led 
them,  on  a  sunny  afternoon,  into  her  mother's  little 
sitting-room  where  she  sat  writing  at  her  desk. 

Jack  was  there,  reading  near  the  window  that 
opened  upon  the  veranda,  but  his  presence  was  not 
one  to  make  the  occasion  less  intimate,  and  Imogen 
was  glad  of  it.  It  was  well  that  he  should  be  a 
witness  to  what  she  felt  to  be  a  confession  of  faith, 
a  confession  that  needed  explicit  defining,  and  of  a 
faith  that  he  and  all  the  others,  by  common  consent, 
seemed  banded  together  to  ignore. 

So,  with  something  of  the  air  of  a  lovely  verger, 
she  led  her  primed  pair  into  the  room  and  pointed 
out  two  chairs  to  them. 

Valerie,  in  her  thin  black  draperies,  looked  pale 
and  jaded.  She  turned  from  her  desk,  keeping  her 
pen  in  her  hand,  and  Imogen  detected  in  her  eye,  as 
it  rested  upon  the  Pottses,  a  certain  impatience. 

Tison,  suddenly  awakening,  broke  into  passionate 
barking;  he  had  from  the  moment  of  Mr.  Potts 's 
arrival  shown  toward  him  a  pronounced  aversion, 
and,  backed  under  the  safe  refuge  of  his  mistress's 
chair,  his  sharp  hostility  disturbed  the  ceremonious 
entrance. 

"Please  put  the  dog  out,  Jack,"  said  Imogen; 
"we  have  a  very  serious  matter  to  talk  over  with 


260  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

mama."  But  Valerie,  stooping,  caught  him  up, 
keeping  a  soothing  hand  on  his  still  defiant  head, 
while  Mr.  Potts  unfolded  the  plan  before  her. 

The  wonderful  purpose,  the  wonderful  project, 
was  that  Mr.  Potts,  aided  by  Imogen,  should  write 
the  life  of  the  late  Mr.  Upton;  and  as  the  curtain 
was  drawn  from  before  the  shrined  intention,  Imo 
gen  saw  that  her  mother  flushed  deeply. 

"His  name  must  not  be  allowed  to  die  from 
among  us,  Mrs.  Upton.  His  ideals  must  become 
more  widely  the  ideals  of  his  countrymen."  Mr. 
Potts,  crossing  his  knees  and  throwing  back  his 
shoulders,  wrapped  one  hand,  while  he  spoke,  in  a 
turn  of  his  flowing  beard.  ''They  are  in  crying 
need  of  such  a  message,  now,  when  the  tides  of 
social  materialism  and  political  corruption  are  at 
their  height.  We  may  well  say,  to  paraphrase  the 
great  poet's  words:  'Upton!  thou  shouldst  be  living 
at  this  hour;  New  York  hath  need  of  thee. '  And 
this  need  is  one  that  it  is  our  duty,  and  our  high 
privilege,  to  satisfy."  Mr.  Potts 's  eye,  heavy  with 
its  responsibility,  dwelt  on  Valerie's  downcast  face. 
"No  one,  I  may  say  it  frankly,  Mrs.  Upton,  is  more 
fitted  than  I  to  satisfy  that  need  and  to  hand  on  that 
message.  No  one  had  more  opportunity  than  I  for 
understanding  that  radiant  personality  in  its  public 
aspects.  No  one  can  feel  more  deeply  than  I  that 
duty  and  that  privilege.  Every  American  child 
should  know  the  name  of  Upton;  every  American 
man  and  woman  should  count  him  among  the 
prophets  of  his  generation.  He  did  not  ask  for  fame, 
and  we,  his  followers,  ask  none  for  him.  No  marble 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  261 

temple,  no  effulgent  light  of  stained  glass ;— no.  But 
the  violets  and  lilies  of  childhood  laid  upon  his 
grave;  the  tearful,  yet  joyous  whisper  of  those  who 
come  to  share  his  spirit:— 'I,  too,  am  of  his  race.  I, 
too,  can  with  him  strive  and  with  him  achieve.'  ' 
Mr.  Potts 's  voice  had  risen,  and  Tison,  once  more, 
gave  a  couple  of  hoarse,  smothered  barks. 

Imogen,  though  reared  on  verbal  bombast,  had 
found  some  difficulty  in  maintaining  her  expression 
of  uplifted  approbation  while  Mr.  Potts 's  rhetoric 
rolled;  her  willingness  that  Mr.  Potts  should  serve 
the  cause  did  not  blind  her  to  his  inadequacy  unless 
kept  under  the  most  careful  control;  and  now, 
though  incensed  by  Tison 's  interjection,  she  felt  it 
as  something  of  a  relief,  seizing  the  opportunity  of 
Mr.  Potts 's  momentary  confusion  to  suggest,  in  a 
gentle  and  guarded  voice: — "You  might  tell  mama 
now,  Mr.  Potts,  how  we  want  her  to  help  us. ' ' 

"I  am  coming  to  that,  Miss  Imogen,"  said  Mr. 
Potts,  with  a  drop  from  sonority  to  dryness ; — "I  was 
approaching  that  point  when  the  dog  interrupted 
me ' ' ;  and  Mr.  Potts  cast  a  very  venomous  glance 
upon  Tison. 

"Had  not  the  dog  better  be  removed,  Mrs.  Up 
ton?"  Mrs.  Potts,  under  her  breath,  murmured, 
leaning,  as  if  in  a  pew  and  above  prayer-books,  for 
ward  in  her  chair.  But  Mrs.  Upton  seemed  deaf  to 
the  suggestion. 

Mr.  Potts  cleared  his  throat  and  resumed  some 
what  tersely :—"  This  is  our  project,  Mrs.  Upton, 
and  we  have  come  this  afternoon  to  ask  you  for 
your  furtherance  of  it.  You,  of  course,  can  provide 


262  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

me  and  Miss  Imogen  with  many  materials,  inacces 
sible  otherwise,  for  this  our  work  of  love.  Early 
letters,  to  you;— early  photographs;— reminiscences 
of  his  younger  days,  and  so  on.  Any  suggestion  as 
to  the  form  and  scope  of  the  book  we  will  be  glad, 
very  glad,  to  consider." 

Valerie  had  listened  without  a  word  or  gesture, 
her  pen  still  held  in  one  hand,  Tison  pressed  to  her 
by  the  other,  as  she  sat  sideways  to  the  writing- 
table.  Imogen  read  in  her  face  a  mingled  embarrass 
ment  and  displeasure. 

"I  am  sure  we  must  all  be  very  grateful  to  Mr. 
Potts  for  this  great  idea  of  his,  mama  dear,"  she 
said.  "I  thought  of  it,  of  course,  as  soon  as  papa 
died;  I  knew  that  we  all  owed  it  to  him,  and  to  the 
country  that  he  loved  and  served  so  well ;  but  I  did 
not  see  my  way,  and  have  not  seen  it  till  now.  I  've 
so  little  technical  knowledge.  But  now  I  shall  con 
tribute  a  little  memoir  to  the  biography  and,  in  any 
other  way,  give  Mr.  Potts  all  the  aid  I  can.  And 
we  hope  that  you  will,  too.  Papa's  name  is  one  that 
must  not  be  allowed  to  fade. ' ' 

"I  would  rather  talk  of  this  at  some  other  time, 
and  with  Mr.  Potts  alone,"  Valerie  now  said,  not 
raising  her  eyes. 

"But  mama,  this  is  my  work,  too.  I  must  be 
present  when  it  is  talked  of." 

"No,  Jack,  don't  go,"  said  Valerie,  looking  up  at 
the  young  man,  who  had  made  a  gesture  of  rising. 
"You  and  I,  Imogen,  will  speak  of  this  together, 
and  I  will  find  an  hour,  later,  when  I  will  be  free  to 
talk  to  Mr.  Potts." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  263 

"Mama  darling,"  said  Imogen,  masking  her 
rising  anger  in  patient  playfulness,  "you  are  a  lazy, 
postponing  person.  You  are  not  a  bit  busy,  and 
this  is  just  the  time  to  talk  it  over  with  us  all.  Of 
course  Jack  must  stay;  we  want  his  advice,  too, 
severe  critic  as  we  know  him  to  be.  Come,  dear, 
put  down  that  pen."  She  bent  over  her  and  drew 
the  pen  from  her  hand  while  Mr.  Potts  watched  the 
little  scene,  old  suspicions  clouding  his  countenance. 

"My  time  is  limited,  Mrs.  Upton,"  he  observed; 
"Mrs.  Potts  and  I  take  our  departure  to-morrow 
and,  if  I  have  heard  aright,  you  expect  acquaint 
ances  to  dinner.  Therefore,  if  you  will  pardon  me, 
I  must  ask  you  to  let  us  have  the  benefit,  here  and 
now,  of  your  suggestions. ' ' 

Valerie  had  not  responded  by  any  smile  to  Imo 
gen's  rather  baleful  lightness,  nor  did  she,  by  any 
penitence  of  look,  respond  to  Mr.  Potts 's  urgency. 
She  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  and  when  she  spoke  it 
was  in  a  changed  voice,  dulled,  monotonous.  "If 
you  insist  on  my  speaking,  now— and  openly, — I 
must  say  to  you  that  I  altogether  disapprove  of  your 
project.  You  will  never,"  said  Valerie,  with  a  rising 
color,  ' '  gain  my  consent  to  it. ' ' 

A  heavy  silence  followed  her  words,  the  only 
sound  that  of  Tison's  faint  sniffings,  as,  his  nose 
outstretched  and  moving  from  side  to  side,  he  cau 
tiously  savored  the  air  in  Mr.  Potts 's  direction. 
Mrs.  Potts  stirred  slightly,  and  uttered  a  sharp, 
"Tht— tht."  Mr.  Potts,  his  hand  still  stayed  in  his 
beard,  gazed  from  under  the  fringed  penthouse  of 
his  brows  with  an  arrested,  bovine  look. 


264  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

It  was  Imogen  who  broke  the  silence.  Standing 
beside  her  mother  she  had  felt  the  shock  of  a  curious 
fulfilment  go  through  her,  as  if  she  had  almost  ex 
pected  to  hear  what  she  now  heard.  She  mastered 
her  voice  to  ask:— "We  must  demand  your  reasons 
for  this— this  very  strange  attitude,  mama." 

Her  mother  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  "I  don't  think 
that  your  father  was  a  man  of  sufficient  distinction 
to  justify  the  publishing  of  his  biography." 

At  this  Mr.  Potts  breathed  a  deep,  indignant  vol 
ume  of  sound,  louder  than  a  sigh,  less  articulate 
than  a  groan,  through  the  forests  of  his  beard. 

' '  Sufficient  distinction,  Mrs.  Upton !  Sufficient  dis 
tinction!  You  evidently  are  quite  ignorant  of  how 
great  was  the  distinction  of  your  late  husband. 
Ask  us  what  that  distinction  was— ask  any  of  his 
large  circle  of  friends.  It  was  a  distinction  not  of 
mind  only,  nor  of  birth  and  breeding— though  that 
was  of  the  highest  that  this  country  has  fostered— 
but  it  was  a  distinction  also  of  soul  and  spirit.  Your 
husband,  Mrs.  Upton,  fought  with  speech  and  pen 
the  iniquities  of  his  country,  the  country  that,  as 
Miss  Imogen  has  said,  he  loved  and  served.  He 
served,  he  loved,  with  mind  and  heart  and  hand. 
He  was  the  moving  spirit  in  all  the  great  causes  of 
his  day,  the  vitalizing  influence  that  poured  faith 
and  will-power  into  them.  He  founded  the  coopera 
tive  community  of  Clackville;  he  organized  the 
society  of  the  'Doers'  among  our  young  men;— he 
was  a  patron  of  the  arts ;  talent  was  fostered,  cheered 
on  its  way  by  him;— I  can  speak  personally  of  three 
young  friends  of  mine — noble  boys — whom  he  sent 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  265 

to  Paris  at  his  own  expense  for  the  study  of  music 
and  painting;  when  the  great  American  picture  is 
painted,  the  great  American  symphony  composed, 
it  will  be,  in  all  probability,  to  your  husband 
that  the  country  will  owe  the  unveiling  of  its  power. 
And  above  all,  Mrs.  Upton,  above  all,"— Mr.  Potts 's 
voice  dropped  to  a  thunderous  solemnity, — "his 
character,  his  personality,  his  spirit,  were  as  a  light 
shining  in  darkness  to  all  who  had  the  good  fortune 
to  know  him,  and  that  light  cannot,  shall  not,  be 
cribbed,  cabined  and  confined  to  a  merely  private 
capacity.  It  is  a  public  possession  and  belongs  to 
his  country  and  to  his  age." 

Tison,  all  unheeded  now,  had  leapt  to  the  floor 
and,  during  this  address,  had  stood  directly  in  front 
of  the  speaker,  barking  furiously  until  Imogen,  her 
lips  compressed,  her  forehead  flushed,  stooped, 
picked  him  up,  and  flung  him  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Upton  had  sat  quite  motionless,  only  lifting 
her  glance  now  and  then  to  Mr.  Potts 's  shaking 
beard  and  flashing  eye.  And,  after  another  pause, 
in  which  only  Mr.  Potts 's  deep  breathing  was  heard, 
—and  the  desperate  scratching  at  the  door  of  the 
banished  Tison,— she  said  in  somber  tones: — "I 
think  you  forget,  Mr.  Potts,  that  I  was  never  one  of 
my  husband's  appreciators.  I  am  sorry  to  be  forced 
to  recajl  this  fact  to  your  memory." 

It  had  been  in  all  their  memories,  of  course,  a 
vague,  hovering  uncertainty,  a  dark  suspicion  that 
one  put  aside  and  would  not  look  at.  But  to  have 
it  now  placed  before  them,  and  in  these  cold,  these 
somber  tones,  was  to  receive  an  icy  douche  of  reality, 


266  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

to  be  convicted  of  over-ready  hope,  over-generous 
confidence. 

It  was  Imogen,  again,  who  found  words  for  the 
indignant  deputation:  "Is  that  lamentable  fact  any 
reason  why  those  who  do  appreciate  him  should  not 
share,  their  knowledge  with  others?" 

"I  think  it  is;— I  hope  so,  Imogen,"  her  mother 
replied,  not  raising  her  eyes  to  her. 

"You  tell  us  that  your  own  ignorance  and  blind 
ness  is  to  prevent  us  from  writing  my  father's 
life?" 

"My  opinion  of  your  father's  relative  insignifi 
cance  is,  I  think,  a  sufficient  reason." 

"Do  you  quite  realize  the  arrogance  of  that  atti 
tude?" 

"I  accept  all  its  responsibility,  Imogen." 

"But  we  cannot  accept  it  in  you,"  said  Imogen, 
her  voice  sinking  to  the  hard  quiver  of  reality  that 
Jack  well  knew; — "we  can't  fail  in  our  duty  to  him 
because  you  have  always  failed  in  yours.  We  are 
in  no  way  bound  to  consider  you— who  never  con 
sidered  him." 

"Imogen,"  said  her  mother,  raising  her  eyes  with 
a  look  of  command ;  ' '  you  forget  yourself.  Be  still. ' ' 

Imogen's  face  froze  to  stone.  Such  words,  such  a 
look,  she  had  never  met  before.  She  stood  silent, 
helpless,  rage  and  despair  at  her  heart. 

But  Mr.  Potts  did  not  lag  behind  his  duty.  His 
hand  still  wrapped,  Moses-like,  in  his  beard,  his 
eyes  bent  in  holy  wrath  .upon  his  hostess,  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  Mrs.  Potts,  in  recounting  the  scene — 
one  of  the  most  thrilling  of  her  life — always  said 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  267 

that  never  had  she  seen  Delaney  so  superbly  true, 
never  had  she  seen  blood  so  tell. 

"I  must  say  to  you,  Mrs.  Upton,  with  the  deepest 
pain,"  he  said,  "that  I  agree  with  Miss  Imogen.  I 
must  inform  you,  Mrs.  Upton,  that  you  have  no 
right,  legal  or  moral,  to  bind  us  by  your  own  short 
coming.  Miss  Imogen  and  I  may  do  our  duty  with 
out  your  help  or  consent. ' ' 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Potts," 
Valerie  replied.  She  had,  unseeingly,  taken  up  her 
pen  again  and,  with  a  gesture  habitual  to  her,  was 
drawing  squares  and  crosses  on  the  blotter  under 
her  hand.  The  lines  trembled.  The  angles  of  the 
squares  would  not  meet. 

"But  I  have  still  something  to  say  to  you,  Mrs. 
Upton, ' '  said  Mr.  Potts ;  "  I  have  still  to  say  to  you 
that,  much  as  you  have  shocked  and  pained  us  in 
the  past,  you  have  never  so  shocked  and  pained  us 
as  now.  "We  had  hoped  for  better  things  in  you, — 
wider  lights,  deeper  insights,  the  unsealing  of  your 
eyes  to  error  and  wrong  in  yourself;  we  had  hoped 
that  sorrow  would  work  its  sacred  discipline  and 
that,  with  your  daughter's  hand  to  guide  you,  you 
were  preparing  to  follow,  from  however  far  a  dis 
tance,  in  the  footsteps  of  him  who  is  gone.  This 
must  count  for  us,  always,  as  a  dark  day  of  life, 
when  we  have  seen  a  human  soul  turn  wilfully  from 
the  good  held  out  to  it  and  choose  deliberately  the 
evil.  I  speak  for  myself  and  for  Mrs.  Potts — and  in 
sorrow  rather  than  in  wrath,  Mrs.  Upton.  I  say 
nothing  of  your  daughter;  I  bow  my  head  before 
that  sacred  filial  grief.  I—" 


268  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

But  here,  suddenly,  quiet,  swift,  irresistible  as  a 
flame,  Jack  rose  from  his  place.  It  seemed  one 
suave,  unbroken  motion,  that  by  which  he  laid  a 
hand  on  Mr.  Potts 's  shoulder,  a  hand  on  Mrs.  Potts 's 
shoulder— she  had  risen  in  wonder  and  alarm  at  the 
menacing  descent  upon  her  lord — laid  a  hand  on 
each,  swept  them  to  the  door,  opened  it,  swept  them 
out,  and  shut  the  door  upon  them.  Then  he  turned 
and  leaned  upon  it,  his  arms  folded. 

"Perhaps,  Jack,  you  wish  to  put  me  out,  too," 
said  Imogen  in  a  voice  of  ice  and  fire.  "Your  argu 
ments  are  conclusive.  I  hope  that  mama  approves 
her  champion." 

Valerie  now  seemed  to  lean  heavily  on  the  table; 
she  rested  her  forehead  on  her  hand,  covering  her 
eyes. 

' '  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me,  mama,  before 
Jack  executes  his  justice  on  me  ? ' '  Imogen  asked. 

"Spare  me,  Imogen,"  her  mother  answered. 

"Have  you  spared  me?"  said  Imogen.  "Have 
you  spared  my  father  ?  What  right  have  you  to  ask 
for  mercy?  You  are  a  cruel,  a  shallow,  a  selfish 
woman,  and  you  break  my  heart  as  you  broke  his. 
Now  Jack,  you  need  not  put  me  out.  I  will  go 
of  myself. ' ' 

When  Jack  had  closed  the  door  on  her,  he  still 
stood  leaning  against  it  at  a  distance  from  Valerie. 
He  saw  that  she  wept,  bitterly  and  uncontrollably ; 
but,  at  first,  awed  by  her  grief,  he  did  not  dare  ap 
proach  her.  It  was  only  when  the  sobs  were  quieted 
that  he  went  and  stood  near  her. 

"You  were  right,  right,"  he  almost  whispered. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  269 

She  did  not  answer,  and  wept  on  as  if  there  could 
be  no  consolation  for  her  in  such  Tightness. 

"It  had  to  come,"  said  Jack;  "she  had  to  be 
made  to  understand.  And— you  are  right." 

She  was  not  thinking  of  herself.  "Oh,  Jack 
Jack, ' '  she  spoke  at  last,  putting  out  her  hand  to  his 
and  grasping  it  tightly  ''How  I  have  hurt  her. 
Poor  Imogen; — my  poor,  poor  child." 


(MOGEN  hardly  knew  where  she  went, 
or  how,  when  she  left  her  mother— her 
mother  and  Jack— and  darted  from 
the  house  on  the  wings  of  a  supreme 
indignation,  a  supreme  despair.  Her 
sense  of  niness  was  not  that  of  Mr.  Potts,  and  she 
knew  that  her  father's  biography  was  doomed. 
Against  her  mother's  wish  it  could  not,  with  any 
grace,  any  dignity,  be  published.  Mr.  Potts  would 
put  forth  appreciation  of  his  departed  chief  in  the 
small,  grandiloquent  review  to  which  he  contributed 
—he  had  only  delayed  because  of  the  greater  project 
—but  such  a  tribute  would  be  a  sealing  of  public 
failure  rather  than  the  kindling  of  public  recogni 
tion.  Already  her  father,  by  that  larger  public, 
was  forgotten— forgotten;  Mr.  Potts  would  not 
make  him  remembered. 

The  word  "forgotten"  seemed  like  the  beat  of 
dark,  tragic  wings,  bearing  her  on  and  on.  The  fire 
of  a  bitter  wrong  burned  in  her.  And  it  was  not 
the  sense  of  personal  wrong — though  that  was  fierce, 
—that  made  her  flight  so  blind  and  headlong— not 
her  mother's  cruelty  nor  Jack's  sinister  espousal  of 
the  cause  he  saw  as  evil ;  it  was  this  final,  this  cul- 

270 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  271 

minating  wrong  to  her  father.  His  face  rose  before 
her,  while  she  fled,  the  deep,  dark  eyes  dwelling 
with  persistence  on  her  as  though  they  asked,— she 
seemed  to  hear  the  very  words  and  in  his  very  voice : 
— ''What  have  they  done  to  me,  little  daughter? 
Did  I  deserve  this  heaping  of  dust  upon  my  name; — 
and  from  her  hands  ? ' ' 

For  it  was  that.  Dust,  the  dust  of  indifferent 
time,  of  cold-hearted  oblivion,  was  drifting  over 
him,  hiding  his  smile,  his  eyes,  his  tears.  It  seemed 
to  mount,  to  suffocate  her,  as  she  ran,  this  dust, 
strewn  by  her  mother's  hand.  Even  in  her  own 
heart  she  had  known  the  parching  of  its  drifting 
fall,  known  that  crouching  doubts— not  of  him,  never 
of  him— but  of  his  greatness,  had  lurked  in  ambush 
since  her  mother  had  come  home; — known  that  the 
Pottses  and  their  fitness  had  never  before  been  so 
clearly  seen  for  the  little  that  they  were  since  her 
mother — and  all  that  her  mother  had  brought— had 
come  into  her  life.  And,  before  this  drifting  of 
dust  upon  her  faith  in  her  father's  greatness,  her 
heart,  all  that  was  deepest  in  it,  broke  into  a  greater 
trust,  a  greater  love,  sobs  beneath  it.  He  was  not 
great,  perhaps,  as  the  world  counted  greatness;  but 
he  was  good,  good, — he  was  sorrowful  and  patient. 
He  loved  her  as  no  one  had  ever  loved  her.  His 
ideals  were  hers  and  her  love  was  his.  Dust  might 
lie  on  his  tomb;  but  never,  never,  in  her  heart. 

"Ah,  it  's  cruel!  cruel!  cruel!"  she  panted,  as 
she  ran,  ran,  up  the  rocky,  woodland  path,  leaping 
from  ledge  to  ledge,  slipping  on  the  silky  moss,  fall 
ing  now  and  then  on  hands  and  knees,  but  not 


272  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

pausing  or  faltering  until  she  reached  the  murmur 
ing  pine- woods,  the  grassy,  aromatic  glades  where 
the  mountain-laurel  grew. 

Pallid,  disheveled,  with  tragic,  unseeing  eyes  and 
parted  lips — the  hollowed  eyes,  the  sorrowful  lips  of 
a  classic  mask— she  rushed  from  the  shadows  of  the 
mountain-path  into  this  place  of  sunlight  and  soli 
tude.  A  doomed,  distraught  Antigone. 

And  so  she  looked  to  Sir  Basil,  who,  his  back 
against  a  warm  rock,  a  cigarette  in  one  lazy  hand, 
was  outstretched  there  before  her  on  the  moss,  a 
bush  of  flowering  laurel  at  his  head,  and,  at  his  feet, 
beyond  tree-tops,  the  steep,  far  blue  of  the  lower 
world.  He  was  gazing  placidly  at  this  view,  empty 
of  thought  and  even  of  conscious  appreciation, 
wrapped  in  a  balmy  contentment,  when,  with  the 
long,  deep  breath  of  a  hunted  deer,  Imogen  leaped 
from  darkness  into  light,  and  her  face  announced 
such  disaster  that,  casting  aside  the  cigarette,  spring 
ing  to  his  feet,  he  seized  her  by  the  arms,  thinking 
that  she  might  fall  before  him.  And  indeed  she 
would  have  cast  herself  face  downward  on  the  grass 
had  he  not  been  there;  and  she  leaned  forward  on 
his  supporting  hands,  speechless,  breathing  heavily, 
borne  down  by  the  impetus  of  her  headlong  run. 
Then,  her  face  hidden  from  him  as  she  leaned,  she 
burst  into  sobs. 

"Miss  Upton  !  —  Imogen  ! — My  dear  child  ! — "  said 
Sir  Basil,  in  a  crescendo  of  distress  and  solicitude. 

She  leaned  there  on  his  hands  weeping  so  bitterly 
and  so  helplessly  that  he  finished  his  phrase  by  put- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  273 

ting  an  arm  around  her,  and  so  more  effectually  sup 
porting  her,  so  satisfying,  also,  his  own  desire  to 
comfort  and  caress  her. 

The  human  touch,  the  human  tenderness — though 
him  she  hardly  realized — drew  her  grief  to  articu- 
lateness.  "Oh — my  father! — my  father! — Oh — 
what  have  they  done  to  you!"  she  gasped,  leaning 
her  forehead  against  Sir  Basil's  shoulder. 

"Your  father?"  Sir  Basil  repeated  soothingly, 
since  this  departed  personality  seemed  a  menace 
that  might  easily  be  dealt  with.  "What  is  it? 
What  have  they  done?  How  can  I  help  you?  My 
dear  child,  do  treat  me  as  a  friend.  Do  tell  me 
what  is  the  matter." 

"It  's  mama!  mama! — she  has  broken  my  heart 
—as  she  broke  his,"  sobbed  Imogen,  finding  her 
former  words.  Already,  such  was  the  amazing  irony 
of  events,  Sir  Basil  seemed,  more  than  anyone  in 
the  world,  to  take  that  dead  father's  place,  to  help 
her  in  her  grief  over  him.  The  puzzle  of  it  inflicted 
a  deeper  pang.  "I  can't  tell  you,"  she  sobbed. 
' '  But  I  can  never,  never  forgive  her ! ' ' 

"Forgive  your  mother?"  Sir  Basil  repeated, 
shocked.  "Don't,  I  beg  of  you,  speak  so.  It  's 
some  misunderstanding." 

"No!— No!— It  is  understanding— it  is  the  whole 
understanding !  It  has  come  out  at  last — the  truth — 
the  dreadful  truth." 

"But  can't  you  tell  me?  can't  you  explain?" 

She  lifted  her  face  and  drew  away  from  him  as 
she  said,  pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes: 

18 


274  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"You  never  knew  him.  You  cannot  care  for  bun- 
no  one  who  cares,  as  much  as  you  do,  for  her,— can 
ever  care  for  him." 

Sir  Basil  had  deeply  flushed.  He  led  her  to  the 
sunny  rock  and  made  her  sit  down  on  a  low  ledge, 
where  she  leaned  forward,  her  face  in  her  hands, 
long  sighs  of  exhaustion  succeeding  her  tears. 
"I  know  nothing  about  your  father,  as  you  say, 
and  I  do  care,  very  much,  for  your  mother,"  said 
Sir  Basil  after  a  little  while.  "But  I  care  for  you, 
very  much,  too. ' ' 

"Ah,  but  you  could  never  care  for  me  so  much 
as  to  think  her  wrong." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Why  not?— if  she  is 
wrong.  One  often  thinks  people  one  is  fond  of  very 
wrong.  Do  you  know,"  and  Sir  Basil  now  sat  down 
beside  her,  a  little  lower,  on  the  moss,  ' '  do  you  know 
you  '11  make  me  quite  wretched  if  you  won't  have 
confidence  in  me.  I  really  can't  stand  seeing  you 
suffer  and  not  know  what  it  's  about.  I  don't— I 
can't  feel  myself  such  a  stranger  as  that.  Won't 
you  think  of  me,"  he  took  one  of  her  hands  and 
held  it  as  he  said  this,  "won't  you  think  of  me  as, 
well,  as  a  sort  of  affectionate  old  brother,  you  know  ? 
I  want  to  be  trusted,  and  to  see  if  I  can't  help  you. 
Don't  be  afraid,"  he  added,  "of  being  disloyal— of 
making  me  care  less,  you  know,  for  your  mother,  by 
anything  you  say;  for  you  would  n't." 

Leaning  there,  her  face  hidden,  while  she  half 
heard  him,  it  struck  her  suddenly,  a  shaft  of  light 
in  darkness,  that,  indeed,  he  might  help  her.  She 
dropped  her  hand  to  look  at  him  and,  with  all  its 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  275 

tear-stained  disfigurement,  he  thought  that  he  had 
never  seen  anything  more  heavenly  than  that  look. 
It  sought,  it  sounded  him,  pleaded  with  and  caressed 
him.  And,  with  all  its  solemnity,  there  dawned  in 
it  a  tenderness  deeper  than  any  that  he  had  ever 
seen  in  her. 

''I  do  trust  you,"  she  said.  "I  think  of  you  as  a 
near,  a  dear  friend.  And,  since  you  promise  me  that 
it  will  change  you  in  nothing,  I  will  tell  you.  I 
believe  that  perhaps  you  can  help  us, — my  father 
and  me.  You  must  count  me  with  him,  you  know, 
always.  We  want  to  write  a  life  of  him,  Mr.  Potts 
and  I.  Mr.  Potts— you  may  have  seen  it— is  an 
ordinary  person,  ordinary  but  for  one  thing,  one 
great  and  beautiful  thing  that  papa  and  I  always 
felt  in  him,— and  that  beautiful  thing  is  his  depth 
of  unselfish  devotion  to  great  causes  and  to  good 
people.  He  worked  for  my  father  like  a  faithful, 
loving  dog.  He  had  an  accurate  knowledge  of  all 
the  activities  that  papa's  life  was  given  to— all  the 
ideals  it  aimed  at  and  attained — yes,  yes,  attained, — 
whatever  they  may  say.  He  has  a  very  skilful  pen, 
and  is  in  touch  with  the  public  press.  So,  though  I 
would,  of  course,  have  wished  for  a  more  adequate 
biographer,  I  was  glad  and  proud  to  accept  his  offer ; 
and  I  would  have  overlooked,  revised,  everything. 
"We  felt,— and  by  we,  I  mean  not  only  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Potts,  but  all  his  many,  many  friends,  all  those 
whose  lives  he  loved  and  helped  and  lifted— that 
we  owed  it  to  the  world  he  served  not  to  let  his 
name  fade  from  among  us.  You  cannot  dream, 
Sir  Basil,  of  what  sort  of  man  my  father  was.  His 


276  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

life  was  one  long  devotion  to  the  highest  things,  one 
long  service  of  the  weak  and  oppressed,  one  long 
battle  with  the  wrong.  Those  who  are  incapable  of 
following  him  to  the  heights  can  give  you  no  true 
picture  of  him.  I  will  say  nothing,  in  this  respect, 
of  mama,  except  that  she  could  not  follow  him, — 
and  that  she  made  him  very,  very  unhappy,  and 
with  him,  me.  For  I  shared  all  his  griefs.  She  left 
us;  she  laughed  at  all  the  things  we  cared  and 
worked  for.  My  father  never  spoke  bitterly  of  her ; 
his  last  words,  almost,  were  for  her,  words  of  tender 
ness  and  pity  and  forgiveness.  He  had  the  capacity 
that  only  great  souls  have,  of  love  for  littler  natures. 
I  say  this  much  so  that  you  may  know  that  any  idea 
that  you  may  have  gathered  of  my  father  is,  per 
force,  a  garbled,  a  false  one.  He  was  a  noble,  a 
wonderful  man.  Everything  I  am  I  owe  to  him." 

Imogen  had  straightened  herself,  the  traces  of 
weeping  almost  gone,  her  own  fluency,  as  was  usual 
with  her,  quieting  her  emotion,  even  while  her  own 
and  her  father's  wrongs,  thus  objectivized  in  careful 
phrases,  made  indignation  at  once  colder  and  deeper. 
Her  very  effort  to  quell  indignation,  to  command 
her  voice  to  an  even  justice  of  tone  before  this  lover 
of  her  mother 's,  gave  it  a  resonant  quality,  curiously 
impressive.  And,  as  she  looked  before  her,  down 
into  the  blue  profundities,  the  sense  of  her  own 
sincerity  seemed  to  pulse  back  to  her  from  her  silent 
listener,  and  filled  her  with  a  growing  consciousness 
of  power  over  him. 

"This  morning,"  she  took  up  her  theme  on  that 
resonant  note,  deepened  to  a  tragic  pitch,  "we  went 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  277 

to  mama— Mr.  Potts  and  I — to  tell  her  of  our 
project  of  commemoration,  to  ask  her  cooperation. 
We  wanted  to  be  very  generous  with  her,  to  take 
her  help  and  her  sympathy  for  granted.  I  should 
have  felt  it  an  insult  to  my  mother  had  I  told  Mr. 
Potts  that  we  must  carry  on  our  work  without  con 
sulting  her.  She  received  us  with  cold  indifference. 
She  tried  not  to  listen,  when  she  heard  what  our 
errand  was.  And  her  indifference  became  hostility, 
when  she  understood.  All  her  old  hatred  for  what 
he  was  and  meant,  all  her  fundamental  antagonism 
to  the  purpose  of  his  life— and  to  him — came  at  last, 
openly,  to  the  light.  She  was  forced  to  reveal  her 
self.  Not  only  has  she  no  love,  no  reverence  for 
him,  but  she  cannot  bear  that  others  should  learn  to 
love  him  and  to  reverence  him.  She  sneered  at  his 
claim  to  distinction;  she  refused  her  consent  to  our 
project.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  for  me  to  say — but  I 
must— and  you  will  understand  me— you  who  will 
not  care  less  for  her  because  she  is  so  wrong — what 
I  feel  most  of  all  in  her  attitude  is  a  childish,  yet 
a  cruel,  jealousy.  She  cannot  endure  that  she 
should  be  so  put  into  the  dark  by  the  spreading  of 
his  light.  The  greater  his  radiance  is  shown  to  be, 
the  more  in  the  wrong  will  all  her  life  be  proved; — 
it  is  that  that  she  will  not  hear  of.  She  wants  him 
to  be  obscure,  undistinguished,  negligible,  because 
it  's  that  that  she  has  always  thought  him. ' ' 

Sir  Basil,  while  she  spoke,  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  hand  he  held,  a  beautiful  hand,  white,  curi 
ously  narrow,  with  pointed,  upturned  finger-tips. 
Once  or  twice  a  dull  color  rose  to  his  sunburned 


278  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

cheek,  but  in  his  well-balanced  mind  was  a  steady 
perception  of  what  the  filial  grief  and  pain  must  be 
from  which  certain  words  came.  He  could  not  re 
sent  them;  it  was  inevitable  that  a  child  who  had 
so  loved  her  father  should  so  think  and  feel.  And 
her  self-control,  her  accurate  fluency,  answered 
with  him  for  her  sincerity  as  emotion  could  not  have 
done.  Passion  would  never  carry  this  noble  girl 
into  overstatement.  Fairness  constrained  him  to 
admit,  while  he  listened,  that  dark  color  in  his 
cheek,  that  her  view  of  her  father  was  more  likely 
to  be  right  than  her  mother's  view.  An  unhappily 
married  woman  was  seldom  fair.  Mrs.  Upton  had 
never  mentioned  her  husband  to  him,  never  alluded 
to  him  except  in  most  formal  terms;  but  the  facts 
of  her  flight  from  the  marital  hearth,  the  fact  that 
he  had  made  her  so  unhappy,  had  been  to  him  suffi 
cient  evidence  of  Mr.  Upton's  general  unworthiness. 
Now,  though  Imogen's  tragic  ardor  did  not  commu 
nicate  any  of  her  faith  in  her  father's  wonder  or 
nobility,  it  did  convince  him  of  past  unfairness 
toward,  no  doubt,  a  most  worthy  man.  Incompati 
bility,  that  had  been  the  trouble ;  he  one  of  these 
reformer  people,  very  much  in  earnest;  and  Mrs. 
Upton,  dear  and  lovely  though  she  was,  with  not  a 
trace  of  such  enthusiasm  in  her  moral  make-up. 

So,  when  Imogen  had  finished,  though  he  sat 
silent  for  a  little  while,  though  beneath  the  steady 
survey  of  what  she  put  before  him  was  a  stirring 
of  trouble,  it  was  in  a  tone  of  quiet  acceptance  that 
he  at  last  said,  looking  up  at  her,  "Yes;  I  quite 
see  what  you  feel  about  it.  To  you,  of  course,  they 
must  look  like  that,  your  mother's  reasons.  They 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  279 

must  look  very  differently  to  her,  that  goes  without 
saying.  We  can't  really  make  out  these  things,  you 
know,  these  fundamental  antagonisms;  I  never 
knew  it  went  as  far  as  that.  But  I  quite  see.  Poor 
child.  I  'm  very  sorry.  It  is  most  awfully  hard 
;>n  you." 

"Don't  think  of  me!"  Imogen  breathed  out  on  a 
note  of  pain.  "It  's  not  of  myself  I  'm  thinking, 
not  of  my  humiliation  and  despair  — but  of  him ! — 
of  him!— Is  it  right  that  I  should  submit?  Ought 
a  project  like  ours  to  be  abandoned  for  such  a 
reason  ? ' ' 

Again  Sir  Basil  was  silent  for  some  moments,  con 
sidering  the  narrow  white  hands.  "Perhaps  she  '11 
come  round, — think  better  of  it." 

"Ah !—  "  it  was  now  on  a  note  of  deep,  of  tremu 
lous  hope  that  she  breathed  it  out,  looking  into  his 
eyes  with  the  profound,  searching  look  so  moving 
to  him;  "Ah! — it  's  there,  it  's  there,  that  you 
could  help  me.  She  would  never  yield  to  me.  She 
might  to  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that  likely,"  Sir  Basil  pro 
tested,  the  flush  darkening. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Imogen,  leaning  toward  him 
above  his  clasp  of  her  hand.  "Yes,  if  anything  is 
likely  that  is  so.  If  hope  is  anywhere,  it  's  there. 
Don't  you  see,  in  her  eyes  I  stand  for  him.  To  yield 
to  me  would  be  like  yielding  to  him,  would  be  his 
triumph.  That  's  what  she  can't  forgive  in  me— 
that  I  do  stand  for  him,  that  I  live  by  all  that  she 
rejected.  She  would  never  yield  to  me; — but  she 
might  yield  for  you." 

"Shall  I  speak  to  her  about  it?"  Sir  Basil  asked 


280  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

abruptly,  after  another  moment  in  which  Imogen's 
hand  grasped  his  tightly,  its  soft,  warm  fingers  more 
potent  in  appeal  than  even  her  eyes  had  been.  And 
now,  again,  she  leaned  toward  him,  her  eyes  inundat 
ing  him  with  radiant  trust  and  gratitude,  her  hands 
drawing  his  hand  to  her  breast  and  holding  it  there, 
so  clasped. 

"Will  you?— Oh,  will  you?— dear  Sir  Basil." 

Sir  Basil  stammered  a  little.  "I  '11  have  a  try— 
It  's  hard  on  you,  I  think.  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  n  't  have  your  heart 's  desire.  It  's  an  awfully 
queer  thing  to  do, — but,  for  your  sake,  I  '11  have  a 
try— put  it  to  her,  you  know." 

"Ah,  I  knew  that  you  were  big,"  said  Imogen. 

He  looked  at  her,  his  hand  between  her  hands. 
The  flowering  laurel  was  behind  her  head.  The 
pine-forest  murmured  about  them.  The  sky  was 
blue  above  them,  and  the  deep  blue  of  the  distance 
lay  at  their  feet.  Suddenly,  as  they  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes,  it  dawned  in  the  consciousness  of 
both  that  something  was  happening. 

It  was  to  Sir  Basil  that  it  was  happening.  Imo 
gen's  was  but  the  consciousness  of  his  experience. 
Such  a  thing  could  hardly  happen  to  Imogen. 
Neither  her  senses,  nor  her  emotions,  nor  her  imag 
ination  played  any  dominant  part  in  her  nature. 
She  was  incapable  of  falling  in  love  in  the  helpless, 
headlong,  human  fashion  that  the  term  implies. 
But  though  such  feeling  lacked,  the  perception  of 
it  in  others  was  swift,  and  wrhile  she  leaned  to  Sir 
Basil  in  the  sunlight,  while  she  clasped  his  hand 
to  her  breast,  while  their  eyes  dwelt  deeply  on  each 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  281 

other,  she  seemed  to  hear,  like  a  rising  chime  of  won 
der  and  delight,  the  ringing  of  herald  bells  that 
sang:  "Mine— mine— mine— if  I  choose  to  take 
him." 

Wonderful  indeed  it  was  to  feel  this  influx  of 
certain  power.  Sunlight,  like  that  about  them-, 
seemed  to  rise,  slowly,  softly,  within  her,  like  the 
upwelling  of  a  spring  of  joy. 

It  was  happening,  it  had  happened  to  him,  his 
eyes  told  her  that;  but  whether  he  knew  as  she  did 
she  doubted  and,  for  the  beautiful  moment,  it  added 
a  last  touch  of  charm  to  her  exultation  to  know  that, 
while  she  was  sure,  she  could  leave  that  light  veil 
of  his  wonder  shimmering  between  them. 

With  the  vision  of  the  unveiling  her  mind  leaped 
to  the  thought  of  her  mother  and  of  Jack,  and  with 
that  thought  came  a  swift  pulse  of  vengeful  glad 
ness.  So  she  would  make  answer  to  them  both — the 
scorner — the  rejector.  Not  for  a  moment  must  she 
listen  to  the  voices  of  petty  doubts  and  pities. 
This  love,  that  lay  like  a  bauble  in  her  mother's 
hand— an  unfit  ornament  for  her  years— would 
shine  on  her  own  head  like  a  diadem.  Unasked,  un 
dreamed  of,  it  had  turned  to  her ;  it  was  her  highest 
duty  to  keep  and  wear  it.  It  was  far,  far  more 
than  her  duty  to  herself ;  it  was  her  duty  to  this  man, 
finished,  mature,  yet  full  of  unawakened  possibility ; 
it  was  her  duty  to  that  large,  vague  world  that  his 
life  touched,  a  world  where  her  young  faiths  and 
vigors  would  bring  a  light  such  as  her  mother's  gay 
little  taper  could  never  spread.  These  thoughts,  and 
others,  flashed  through  Imogen's  mind,  with  the 


282  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

swiftness  and  exactitude  of  a  drowning  vision.  Yet, 
after  the  long  moment  of  vivid  realization,  it  was 
at  its  height  that  a  qualm,  a  sinking  overtook  her. 
The  gift  had  come;  of  that  she  was  sure.  But  its 
triumphant  displayal  might  be  delayed— nay,  might 
be  jeopardized.  Some  perverse  loyalty  in  his  nature, 
some  terrified  decisiveness  of  action  on  her  mother's 
part,  and  the  golden  reality  might  even  be  made  to 
crumble.  For  one  moment,  as  the  qualm  seized  her, 
she  saw  herself — and  the  thought  was  like  a  flying 
flame  that  scorched  her  lips  as  it  passed— she  saw 
herself  sweeping  aside  the  veil,  sinking  upon  his 
breast,  with  tears  that  would  reveal  him  to  himself 
and  her  to  him. 

But  it  was  impossible  for  Imogen  to  yield  open- 
eyed  to  temptation  that  could  not  be  sanctified.  Her 
strong  sense  of  personal  dignity  held  her  from  the 
impulse,  and  a  quick  recognition,  too,  that  it  might 
lower  her  starry  altitude  in  his  eyes.  She  must 
stand  still,  stand  perfectly  still,  and  he  would  come 
to  her.  She  could  protect  him  from  her  mother's 
clinging— this  she  recognized  as  a  strange  yet  an 
insistent  duty — but  between  him  and  her  there  must 
not  be  a  shadow,  an  ambiguity. 

The  radiance  of  the  renunciation,  the  resolve,  was 
in  her  face  as  she  gently  released  his  hand,  gently 
rose,  standing  smiling,  with  a  strange,  rapt  smile, 
above  him. 

Sir  Basil  rose,  too,  silent,  and  looking  hard  at  her. 
She  guessed  at  the  turmoil,  the  wonder  of  his  honest 
soul,  his  fear  lest  she  did  guess  it,  and,  with  the  fear, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  283 

the  irrepressible  hope  that,  in  some  sense,  it  was 
echoed. 

"My  dear,  dear  friend,"  she  said,  putting  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  as  though  with  the  gesture 
she  dubbed  him  her  knight,  "my  more  than  friend — 
shall  it  be  elder  brother? — I  believe  that  you  will 
be  able  to  help  me  and  my  father.  And  if  you  fail — 
my  gratitude  to  you  will  be  none  the  less  great.  I 
can 't  tell  you  how  I  trust  you,  how  I  care  for  you. ' ' 

From  his  face  she  looked  up  at  the  sky  above  them ; 
and  in  the  sunlight  her  innocent,  uplifted  smile 
made  her  like  a  heavenly  child.  "Is  n't  it  wonder 
ful? — beautiful?—  '  she  said,  almost  conquering 
her  inner  fear  by  the  seeming  what  she  wished  to  be. 
"Look  up,  Sir  Basil! — Does  n't  it  seem  to  heal 
everything,— to  glorify  everything, — to  promise 
everything  ? ' ' 

He  looked  up  at  the  sky,  still  speechless.  Her 
face,  her  smile — the  sky  above  it— did  it  not  heal, 
glorify,  promise  in  its  innocence?  If  a  great  thing 
claims  one  suddenly,  must  not  the  lesser  things  in 
evitably  go?— Could  one  hold  them?— Ought  one  to 
try  to  hold  them?  There  was  tumult  in  poor  Sir 
Basil's  soul,  the  tumult  of  partings  and  meetings. 

But  when  everything  culminated  in  the  longing 
to  seize  this  heavenly  child— this  heavenly  woman — 
to  seize  and  kiss  her— a  sturdy  sense  of  honesty 
warned  him  that  not  so  could  he,  with  honor,  go 
forward.  He  must  see  his  way  more  clearly  than 
that.  Strange  that  he  had  been  so  blind,  till  now,  of 
where  all  ways,  since  his  coming  to  Vermont,  had 


284  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

been  leading  him.    He  could  see  them  now,  plainly 
enough. 

Taking  Imogen's  hand  once  more,  he  pressed  it, 
dropped  it,  looked  into  her  eyes  and  said,  as  they 
turned  to  the  descent:  "That  was  swearing  eternal 
friendship,  was  n't  it?" 


XXI 

JOLENT  emotions,  in  highly  civilized 
surroundings,  may  wonderfully  be  ef 
faced  by  the  common  effort  of  those 
who  have  learned  how  to  live.  Of 
these  there  were,  perhaps,  not  many  in 
our  little  group ;  but  the  guidance  of  such  a  past 
mistress  of  the  art  as  Imogen's  mother  steered  the 
social  craft,  on  this  occasion,  past  the  reefs  and 
breakers  into  a  tolerably  smooth  sea. 

With  an  ally  as  facile,  despite  his  personal  per 
turbations,  as  Sir  Basil,  a  friend  like  Mrs.  Wake  at 
hand— a  friend  to  whom  one  had  never  to  make 
explanations,  yet  who  always  understood  what  was 
wanted  of  her, — with  a  presence  so  propitious  as  the 
calm  and  unconscious  Miss  Bocock,  the  sickening 
plunges  of  explanation  and  recrimination  that  ac 
company  unwary  seafaring  and  unskilful  seaman 
ship  were  quite  avoided  in  the  time  that  passed  be 
tween  Valerie's  appearance  at  the  tea-table — where 
she  dispensed  refreshment  to  Mrs.  Wake,  Mis? 
Bocock,  and  Jack  only— and  the  meeting  of  all  the 
ship 's  crew  at  dinner. 

Valerie,  in  that  ominous  interlude,  even  when  Sir 
Basil  appeared  on  the  veranda,  alone,  but  saying 

285 


286  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

that  he  had  been  for  a  walk  with  Miss  Upton,  who 
was  tired  and  had  gone  to  her  room  to  rest,  even 
when  she  observed  that  the  Pottses  had  decided  upon 
maintaining  a  splendid  isolation  in  their  own  cham 
bers,  did  not  permit  the  ship  to  turn  for  one  moment 
in  such  a  direction.  She  had  tea  sent  up  to  Imogen 
and  tea  sent  up  to  the  Pottses;  but  no  messages  of 
any  sort  accompanied  either  perfectly  appointed 
tray,  and  when  the  dinner  hour  arrived  she  faced 
the  Pottses'  speechless  dignity  and  Imogen's  mater 
dolorosa  eyelids  with  perfect  composure.  She 
seemed,  on  meeting  the  Pottses,  neither  to  ignore  nor 
to  recall. 

She  seemed  to  understand  speechlessness,  yet  to 
take  it  lightly,  as  if  on  their  account.  She  talked  at 
them,  through  them,  with  them,  really,  in  such  a 
manner  that  they  were  drawn  helplessly  into  her 
shuttle  and  woven  into  the  gracefully  gliding  pat 
tern  of  social  convention  in  spite  of  themselves.  In 
fact,  she  preserved  appearances  with  such  success 
that  everyone,  to  each  one's  surprise,  was  able  to 
make  an  excellent  dinner. 

After  high  emotions,  as  after  high  seas,  the  appe 
tite  is  capricious,  shrinking  to  the  shudder  of  repul 
sion  or  rising  to  w^hetted  keenness.  Valerie  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  that  her  crew,  as  they  assured 
themselves — or,  rather,  as  she  assured  them — that 
the  waters  were  silken  in  their  calm,  showed  the 
reaction  from  moral  stress  in  wholesome  sensuous 
gratification.  Even  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Potts,  even  Imo 
gen,  were  hungry. 

She  herself  had  still  too  strongly  upon  her  the 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  287 

qualm  of  imminent  shipwreck  to  do  more  than  seem 
tO  join  them;  but  it  was  only  natural  that  the  cap 
tain,  who  alone  was  conscious  of  just  how  near  the 
reefs  were  and  of  just  how  threatening  the  horizon 
loomed,  should  lack  the  appetite  that  his  reassuring 
presence  evoked.  Jack  noticed  that  she  ate  nothing, 
but  he  alone  noticed  it. 

It  was  perhaps  Jack  who  noticed  most  universally 
at  that  wonderful  little  dinner,  where  the  shaded 
candle-light  seemed  to  isolate  them  in  its  soft,  dif 
fused  circle  of  radiance  and  the  windows,  with  their 
faintly  stirring  muslin  curtains,  to  open  on  a  warm, 
mysterious  ocean  of  darkness.  The  others  were  too 
much  occupied  with  their  own  particular  miseries 
and  in  their  own  particular  reliefs  to  notice  how 
the  captain  fared. 

Mrs..  Wake  must,  no  doubt,  guess  that  something 
was  up,  but  she  could  n't  in  the  least  guess  how 
much.  She  watched,  but  her  observation,  her  watch 
fulness,  could  be  in  no  sense  like  his  own.  Miss 
Bocock,  in  a  low-cut  blouse  of  guipure  and  pale-blue 
satin,  her  favorite  red  roses  pinned  on  her  shoulder, 
her  fringe  freshly  and  crisply  curled  above  her  eye 
glasses,  was  the  only  quite  unconscious  presence,  and 
so  innocent  was  her  unconsciousness  that  it  could 
not  well  be  observant.  Indeed,  in  one  sinking  mo 
ment,  she  leaned  forward,  with  unwonted  kindliness, 
to  ask  the  stony  Mrs.  Potts  if  her  headache  was  better, 
a  question  received  with  a  sphinx-like  bow.  Apart, 
however,  from  the  one  or  two  blunders  of  uncon 
sciousness,  Jack  saw  that  Miss  Bocock  was  very 
useful  to  Valerie;  more  useful  than  himself,  on 


288  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

whom,  he  felt,  her  eye  did  not  venture  to  rest  for 
any  length  of  time.  Too  tragic  a  consciousness  would 
rise  between  them  if  their  glances  too  deeply  inter 
mingled. 

Miss  Bocock's  gaze,  behind  its  crystal  medium,  was 
a  smooth  surface  from  which  the  light  balls  of 
dialogue  rebounded  easily.  Miss  Bocock  thought 
that  she  had  never  talked  so  well  upon  her  own 
topics  as  on  this  occasion,  and  from  the  intentness 
of  the  glances  turned  upon  her  she  might  well  have 
been  misled  as  to  her  effectiveness.  The  company 
seemed  to  thirst  for  every  detail  as  to  her  theory  of 
the  rise  of  the  Mycenean  civilization.  Mrs.  Wake, 
for  all  her  tact,  was  too  wary,  too  observant,  to  fill 
so  perfectly  the  part  of  buffer-state  as  was  Miss 
Bocock. 

If  one  wanted  pure  amusement,  with  but  the 
faintest  tincture  of  pity  to  color  it,  the  countenances 
of  the  Pottses  were  worth  close  study.  That  their 
silence  was  not  for  one  moment  allowed  to  become 
awkward,  to  themselves,  or  to  others,  Jack  recog 
nized  as  one  of  Valerie's  miracles  that  night,  and 
when  he  considered  that  the  Pottses  might  not  guess 
to  whom  they  owed  their  ease,  he  could  hardly  pity 
them.  That  their  eyes  should  not  meet  his,  except 
for  a  heavy  stare  or  two,  was  natural.  After  this 
meeting  in  the  mirage-like  oasis  that  Valerie  made 
bloom  for  them  all,  he  knew  that  for  the  Pottses  he 
would  be  relegated  to  the  sightless,  soundless  Saharas 
of  a  burning  remembrance.  It  was  but  a  small  part 
of  his  attention  that  was  spared  to  the  consciousness 
that  Mr.  Potts  was  very  uplifted,  that  Mrs.  Potts 
was  very  tense,  and  that  Mrs.  Potts 's  dress,  as  if  in 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  289 

protest  against  any  form  of  relaxation  and  condona 
tion,  was  very,  very  high  and  tight.  Indeed,  Mrs. 
Potts,  in  her  room,  before  the  descent,  had  said  to 
her  husband,  in  the  mutual  tones  of  their  great  situ 
ation,  laying  aside  with  resolution  the  half-high 
bodice  that,  till  then,  had  marked  her  concession  to 
fashionable  standards,  "Never,  never  again,  in  her 
house.  Let  her  bare  her  bosom  if  she  will.  I  shall 
protest  against  her  by  every  symbol.' 

Mr.  Potts,  with  somber  justice,  as  though  he  ex 
onerated  an  Agrippina  from  one  of  many  crimes, 
had  remarked  that  the  bosom,  as  far  as  he  had  ob 
served  it,  had  been  slightly  veiled;  but:— "I  under 
stand  those  tuckers,"  Mrs.  Potts  had  replied  with  a 
withering  smile,  presenting  her  back  for  her  hus 
band  to  hook,  a  marital  office  that  usually  left  Mr. 
Potts  in  an  exhausted  condition. 

So  Mrs.  Potts  this  evening  seemed  at  once  to 
mourn,  to  protest  and  to  accuse,  covered  to  her  chin 
with  a  relentless  black. 

But,  though  Jack  saw  all  this,  he  was  not  in  the 
humor  for  more  than  a  superficial  sense  of  amuse 
ment.  With  his  excited  sense  of  mirth  was  a  deeper 
sense  of  disaster,  and  the  poor  Pottses  were  at -once 
too  grotesque  and  too  insignificant  to  satisfy  it. 

It  was  upon  Imogen  and  Sir  Basil  that  his  eye 
most  frequently  turned.  Valerie  had  put  them  to 
gether,  separated  from  herself  by  the  whole  length 
of  the  table ;  Mr.  Potts  was  on  Imogen 's  other  hand ; 
Miss  Bocock  sat  between  Mr.  Potts  and  Valerie,  and 
Jack,  Mrs.  Wake  and  Mrs.  Potts  brought  the  circle 
round  to  Sir  Basil,  a  neat  gradation  of  affinities. 

Jack,  in  a  glance,  had  seen  that  Imogen  had  been 

19 


290  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

passionately  weeping;  he  could  well  imagine  that 
grief.  But  before  her  pallid  face  and  sunken  eyes 
he  knew  that  his  heart  was  hardened.  Never,  judged 
from  a  dispassionate  standard,  had  Imogen  been  so 
right,  and  her  Tightness  left  him  indifferent.  If 
she  had  been  wrong ;  if  she  had  been,  in  some  sense 
guilty,  if  her  consciousness  had  not  been  so  su 
premely  spotless,  he  would  have  been  sorrier  for  her. 
It  was  the  woman  beside  him,  whose  motives  he 
could  not  penetrate,  whose  action  to-day  had  seemed 
to  him  mistaken,  it  was  for  her  that  his  heart  ached. 
Imogen  he  seemed  to  survey  from  across  a  far,  wide 
chasm  of  alienation. 

Sir  Basil  was  evidently  as  bent  on  helping  her  as 
was  her  mother.  He  talked  very  gaily,  tossing  back 
all  Valerie's  balls.  He  rallied  Miss  Bocock  on  her 
radical  tendencies,  and  engaged  in  a  humorous  dis 
pute  with  Mrs.  Wake  in  defense  of  racing.  Imogen, 
when  he  spoke,  turned  her  eyes  on  him  and  listened 
gravely.  When  her  mother  spoke,  she  looked  down 
at  her  plate.  But  once  or  twice  Jack  caught  her 
eye,  while  her  mother's  attention  was  engaged  else 
where,  resting  upon  her  with  a  curious,  a  piercing  in- 
tentness.  Such  a  cold  glitter,  as  of  steel,  was  in 
the  glance,  that,  instinctively,  his  own  turned  on 
Valerie,  as  if  he  had  felt  her  threatened. 

This  instinct  of  protection  was  oddly  on  the  watch 
to-night.  Under  the  sense  of  mirth  and  disaster  a 
deeper  thing  throbbed  in  him,  some  inarticulate  sor 
row,  greater  than  the  apparent  causes  warranted, 
that  mourned  with  and  for  her.  In  the  illumination 
of  this  intuition  Valerie,  he  thought,  had  never  been 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  291 

so  lovely  as  to-night.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her 
body,  with  its  indolence  of  aspect,  expressed  an  al 
most  superhuman  courage.  She  was  soft  and  frag 
ile  and  weary,  leaning  there  in  her  transparent 
black,  her  cheek  in  her  hand,  her  elbow,  in  its  loose 
sleeve,  resting  on  the  table ;  but  she  made  him  think 
of  a  reed  that  the  tempest  could  not  break. 

Her  face  was  pale,  he  had  never  seen  it  so  drained 
of  its  dusky  rose.  There  was  something  inexpressi 
bly  touching  in  the  flicker  of  her  smile  on  the  white, 
white  cheek,  in  the  innocent  gaiety  of  the  dimple, 
placed  high  and  recalling  Japanese  suggestions, 
vague  as  the  scent  of  sandal-wood.  She,  too,  had 
wept,  as  he  well  knew,  and  his  heart  ached  dully  as 
he  thought  of  that  bitter  weeping,  those  tears  of  hu 
mility  and  pain.  Her  eyelids,  strangely  discolored, 
were  like  the  petals  of  a  melancholy  flower,  and  her 
eyes  were  heavy  and  gentle. 

A  vague,  absurdly  alarming  sense  of  presage  grew 
upon  him  as  his  eyes  went  from  this  face  to  Imogen 's 
— so  still,  so  cold,  so  unanswering,  lightened,  as  if 
from  a  vail  of  heavy  cloud,  by  that  stealthy,  baleful, 
illuminating  glance.  In  Imogen's  whole  bearing  he 
read  renouncement,  but  renouncement,  in  her  hand, 
would  assuredly  prove  a  scourge  for  her  mother's 
shoulders.  For  the  time  that  they  must  be  to 
gether,  she  and  her  mother,  her  sense  of  her  own 
proved  Tightness  would  be  relentless,  as  inflexible  as 
and  as  relentless  as  her  sense  of  bitter  wrong. 

Valerie's  shoulders  were  bared  and  bowed.  She 
was  ready  to  take  it  all.  But  it  was  here,  for  Jack, 
that  the  deep  instinct  of  protection  centered  at  last 


292  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

in  a  clear  decision;  it  was  here  that  he  felt  himself 
rush  in  with  the  only  solution,  the  only  salvation. 
At  the  thought  of  it,  that  one  solution,  his  heart 
ached  more  sharply,  but  it  ached  for  himself  alone. 
For  she  must  go  away ;  yes,  that  was  the  only  escape ; 
she  must  go  away  at  once,  with  Sir  Basil.  She  had 
failed.  She  had  said  it  to  him  that  morning  in  a 
few  broken  sentences  before  relinquishing  the  hand 
she  grasped. 

"I  've  done  more  than  fail.  I  've  wrecked 
things";  and  she  had  smiled  piteously  upon  him 
and  left  him. 

He  knew  of  what  she  spoke,  of  the  disaster  that, 
as  she  had  seen,  finally  and  irrevocably  had  over 
taken  his  love  for  her  child. 

And  it  was  true,  of  course.  She  had  failed.  She 
had  wrecked  things;  but  in  his  eyes,  the  failure  she 
bore,  the  destruction  she  brought,  made  others  dark, 
not  her.  She  must  accept  the  irony  of  things, — it 
was  not  on  her  that  its  shadow  rested,  and  she 
must  go,  back  to  her  own  place,  back  to  her  own 
serene,  if  saddened,  sunlight,  where  she  could 
breathe  again  and  be  safe  from  scourgings.  Thank 
heaven  for  Sir  Basil,  was  Jack's  thought,  over  that 
sharpened  ache.  And  it  was  with  this  thought  that, 
for  Jack,  came  the  first  sinister  whisper,  the  whisper 
that,  as  suddenly  as  the  hiss  of  a  viper  trodden  upon 
in  the  grass,  warned  him  of  the  fulfilment,  clear, 
startling,  unimaginable,  of  all  dim  presages. 

He  always  remembered,  ludicrously,  that  they  had 
reached  the  sweet  when  the  whisper  came,  and  with 
his  recollection  of  its  import  there  mingled  for  him 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  293 

always  the  incongruous  association  of  sliced  peaches 
and  iced  cream.  He  had  just  helped  himself  to  this 
dish  when,  raising  his  eyes,  he  saw  Sir  Basil  looking 
at  Imogen. 

It  was,  apparently,  a  calm,  a  thoughtful  look,  and 
as  Imogen's  eyes  were  downcast  to  her  fruit  and 
cream,  which  she  was  eating  with  much  appetite,  she 
did  not  then  meet  it.  But  it  was  a  look  a  little  of? 
guard ; — his  perception  of  that  was  the  first  low  sibi 
lant  that  reached  him ; — it  was  a  look  full  of  gentle 
solicitude,  full  of  brooding,  absorbed  intentness ;  and 
presently,  when  Imogen,  as  if  aware  of  it,  glanced 
up  and  met  it,  Sir  Basil  deeply  flushed  and  turned 
his  eyes  away. 

This  passage  was  a  small  enough  cause  to  make 
one  suddenly  grow  very  chilly;  Jack  tried  to  tell 
himself  that,  as  he  mechanically  went  on  eating. 
Perhaps  Imogen  had  confided  in  Sir  Basil;  perhaps 
he  agreed  with  her,  was  sorry,  sympathetic,  and  em 
barrassed  by  a  sympathy  that  set  him  against  the 
woman  he  loved;  perhaps  he  already  felt  a  protect 
ing,  paternal  affection  for  Imogen,  just  as  he  him 
self,  in  the  absurd  inversions  of  their  situation,  felt 
a  protecting  filial  affection  for  Valerie.  But  at  that 
thought — as  if  the  weak  links  of  his  chain  of  possi 
bilities  had  snapped  and  left  him  at  the  verge  of  a 
chasm,  a  sudden  echo  in  himself  revealed  depths  of 
disastrous  analogy.  It  was  revelation  that  came  to 
Jack,  rather  than  self-revelation;  the  instinct  that 
liamed  up  in  him  at  this  moment  was  like  a  torch  in 
i  twilit  cavern.  He  might  have  seen  the  looming 
ihapes  fairly  well  without  it,  but,  by  its  illumination, 


294  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

every  uncertainty  started  out  into  vivid  light  and 
dark.  The  fact  that  his  own  feeling  was  so  far 
other  than  filial  did  not  detain  him.  His  light  was 
not  turned  upon  himself;  of  himself  he  only  knew, 
in  that  dazzling  moment,  that  he  was  armed  as  her 
knight,  armed  for  her  battle  as  a  son  could  not  have 
been ;  it  was  upon  Sir  Basil,  upon  Imogen,  that  the 
torch-light  rested. 

He  looked  presently  from  them  to  Valerie.  Did 
she  know  at  all  what  was  her  peril?  Had  she  seen 
at  all  what  threatened  her  1  Her  face  told  him  noth 
ing.  She  was  talking  to  Miss  Bocock,  and  her  se 
renity,  as  of  mellow  moonlight,  cooled  and  calmed 
him  a  little  so  that  he  could  wonder  whether  the 
peril  was  very  imminent.  Even  if  the  unbelievable 
had  happened; — even  if  Imogen  had  ensnared  Sir 
Basil — Jack's  thoughts,  in  dealing  with  poor  Imo 
gen,  passed  in  their  ruthlessness  beyond  the  facts — 
even  if  she  had  ensnared  him,  surely,  surely,  she 
could  not  keep  him.  The  glamour  would  pass  from 
him.  He  would  be  the  first  to  fight  clear  of  it  were 
he  fully  aware  of  what  it  signified.  For  Imogen 
knew, — the  torch-light  had  revealed  that  to  Jack, — 
Imogen  knew,  he  and  Imogen,  alone,  knew.  Sir 
Basil  did  n't  and  Valerie  did  n't.  Single-handed  he 
might  save  them  both.  Save  them  both  from 
Imogen. 

To  this  strange  landing-place  had  his  long  voyage, 
away  from  old  ports,  old  landmarks,  brought  him; 
and  on  its  rocks  he  stepped  to-night,  bound  on  a 
perilous  quest  in  an  unknown  country.  It  seemed 
almost  like  the  coast  of  another  planet,  so  desolate, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  295 

so  lonely.  But  beyond  the  frowning  headlines  he 
imagined  that  he  would  find,  far  inland,  quiet  green 
stretches  where  he  would  rest,  and  think  of  her. 
The  landing  was  bathed  in  a  light  sadder,  but 
sweeter  far  than  the  sunlight  of  other  countries. 
Here  he  was  to  fight,  not  for  himself,  but  for  her. 

The  first  move  of  strategy  was  made  directly  after 
dinner.  He  asked  Imogen  to  come  out  and  see  the 
moonlight  with  him. 

A  word  to  the  wise  was  a  word  to  Mrs.  Wake,  who 
safely  cornered  Miss  Bocock  and  the  Pottses  over  a 
game  of  cards.  Jack  saw  Valerie  and  Sir  Basil  es 
tablished  on  the  veranda,  and  then  led  Imogen  away, 
drew  her  from  her  quarry,  along  the  winding  path 
in  the  woods. 


XXII 

ALERIE,  on  sinking  into  the  low 
wicker  chair,  and  drawing  her  chud- 
dah  about  her  shoulders,  drawing  it 
closely,  although  the  evening  was  not 
cool  had  expected  to  find  Jack,  or  Mrs. 
Wake,  or  Miss  Bocock  presently  beside  her. 

She  had  watched,  as  they  wandered,  all  of  them, 
into  the  drawing-room,  the  hovering,  long  since  fa 
miliar  to  her,  of  Sir  Basil.  She  had  seen  that  his 
eye  was  as  much  on  Imogen  as  on  herself.  She 
had  seen  Imogen's  eye  meet  his  with  a  deep  in 
sistence.  AVhat  it  commanded,  this  eye,  Valerie 
did  not  know,  but  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  see 
ing  such  glances  obeyed  and  she  expected  to  watch, 
presently,  Imogen's  and  Sir  Basil's  departure  into 
the  moonlit  woods. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  surprise  that  she  looked  up 
to  see  Sir  Basil's  form  darken  against  the  sky.  He 
asked  if  he  might  smoke  his  cigar  beside  her,  and 
the  intelligent  smile  he  knew  so  well  rested  upon 
him  as  he  took  the  chair  next  hers. 

In  the  slight  pause  that  followed,  both  were  think 
ing  that,  since  their  parting  in  England  they  had 
really  been  very  seldom  alone  together,  and  in  Sir 

29C 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  297 

Basil's  mind  was  a  wonder,  very  disquieting,  as  to 
what,  really,  had  been  the  understanding  under  the 
parting. 

He  was  well  aware  that  any  vagueness  as  to  un 
derstanding  had  been  owing  entirely  to  Valerie,  well 
aware  that  had  she  not  always  kept  about  them  the 
atmosphere  of  sunny  frankness  and  gay  friendship, 
he  would  without  doubt  have  entangled  himself  and 
her  in  the  complications  of  an  avowed  devotion,  and 
that  long  before  her  husband's  death.  For  how 
she  had  charmed  him,  this  gay,  this  deep-hearted 
friend,  descending  suddenly  on  his  monotonous  life 
with  a  flutter  of  wings,  a  flash  of  color,  a  liquid  pulse 
of  song,  like  some  strange,  bright  bird.  Charm  had 
grown  to  affection  and  to  trustful  need,  and  then  to 
the  restlessness  and  pain  and  sadness  of  his  hidden 
passion.  He  would  have  spoken,  he  knew  it  very 
well,  were  it  not  that  she  had  never  given  him  the 
faintest  chance  to  speak,  the  faintest  excuse  for 
speaking.  She  had  kept  him  from  any  avowal  so 
completely  that  he  might  well,  now,  wonder  if  his 
self-control  had  not  been  owing  far  more  to  the 
intuition  of  hopelessness  than  to  mere  submission. 
Could  she  have  kept  him  so  silent,  had  she  been  the 
least  little  bit  in  love  with  him?  He  had,  of  course, 
been  tremendously  in  love  with  her— it  was  bewil 
dering  to  use  the  past  tense,  indeed — and  she,  of 
course,  clever  creature  that  she  was,  must  have 
known  it;  but  had  n't  he  been  very  fatuous  in  imag 
ining  that  beneath  her  fond,  playful  friendship  lay 
the  possibility  of  a  deeper  response? 

Since  seeing  her  again,  in  her  effaced,  maternal 


298  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

role,  he  had  realized  that  she  was  more  middle-aged 
than  he  had  ever  thought  her,  and  since  coming  to 
Vermont  there  had  been  a  new  emphasis  in  this 
cool,  gray  quality  that  removed  her  the  more  from 
associations  with  youth  and  passion.  So  was  he 
brought,  by  the  dizzy  turn  of  events,  to  hoping  that 
loyalty  to  his  own  past  love  was,  for  him,  the  only 
question,  since  loyalty  to  her,  in  that  respect,  had 
never  been  expected  of  him. 

Yet,  as  he  took  his  place  beside  her  and  looked  at 
her  sitting  there  in  the  golden  light,  wrapped  round 
in  white,  very  wan  and  pale,  despite  her  smile,  he 
felt  the  strangest,  twisted  pang  of  divided  desire. 

She  was  wan  and  she  was  pale,  but  she  was  not 
cool,  she  was  not  gray ;  he  felt  in  her,  as  strongly  as 
in  far-off  days,  the  warmth  and  fragrance,  and  knew 
that  it  was  Imogen  who  had  so  cast  her  into  a 
shadow.  Her  image  had  grown  dim  on  that  very 
first  time  of  seeing  Imogen  standing  as  Antigone  in 
the  rapt,  hushed  theater.  That  dawn  had  cul 
minated  to-day  in  the  over-mastering,  all-revealing 
burst  of  noon,  and  from  its  radiance  the  past  had 
been  hardly  visible  except  as  shadow.  But  now  he 
sat  in  the  moonlight,  the  past  personified  in  the 
quiet  presence  beside  him,  and  the  memory  of  noon 
day  itself  became  mirage-like  and  uncertain.  He 
almost  felt  as  if  he  had  been  having  a  wild  dream, 
and  that  Valerie's  glance  wras  the  awakening  from 
it. 

To  think  of  Imogen's  filial  grief  and  of  his  prom 
ise  to  her,— a  promise  deeply  recalled  to  him  by  the 
message  of  her  tear- worn  eyes,— to  steady  his  mind 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  299 

to  the  task  of  friendly  helpfulness,  was  to  put  aside 
the  accompanying  memory  of  eyes,  lips,  gold  hair 
on  a  background  of  flowering  laurel,  was  to  re-enter, 
through  sane,  kind  altruism,  his  old,  normal  state  of 
consciousness,  and  to  shut  the  door  on  something  very 
sweet  and  wonderful,  to  shut  the  door — in  Imogen's 
phraseology— on  his  soul,  but,  in  doing  that,  to  be 
loyal  to  the  older  hope. 

Perhaps,  he  reflected,  looking  at  Valerie  through 
the  silvery  circles  of  smoke,  it  depended  on  her  as  to 
whether  the  door  should  remain  shut  on  all  the  high 
visions  of  the  last  weeks.  After  all,  it  had  always 
depended  on  her,  tremendously,  as  to  where  he 
should  find  himself.  Certainly  he  could  n't  regard 
her  as  the  antithesis  of  soul,  though  he  did  n't  asso 
ciate  her  with  its  radiant  demonstration,  yet  he  felt 
that,  if  she  so  willed  it,  she  could  lock  the  door  on 
visions  and  keep  him  sanely,  safely,  sweetly  beside 
her  for  the  future.  If  she  really  did  care.  Poor 
Sir  Basil,  sitting  there  in  his  faint  cloud  of  smoke, 
while  clouds  of  doubt  and  perplexity  as  impalpable 
drifted  through  his  mind,  really  could  n't  for  the 
life  of  him  have  told  which  solution  he  most  hoped 
for. 

He  plunged  from  the  rather  humiliating  pause  of 
self-contemplation  into  the  more  congenial  field  of 
action,  with  a  last  swift  thought— most  illuminating 
of  all— as  he  plunged— that  in  the  results  of  action 
he  would  find  his  test.  If  she  cared  for  him — really 
cared— she  would  grant  his  request;  and  if  she 
cared,  why  then,  not  only  reawakened  loyalty,  but 
some  very  deep  acquiescence  in  his  own  nature, 


300  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

would  keep  him  beside  her,  and  to-night  would  see 
them  as  affianced  lovers.  It  would  be  a  pity  to 
have  let  one's  new-found  soul  go;  but,  after  all,  it 
was  so  very  new  that  the  pang  of  parting  would 
soon  be  over;  that  was  a  good  point  about  middle- 
age,  one  soon  got  over  pangs,  soon  forgot  visions. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something.  I  'm 
going  to  ask  you  to  be  kinder  to  me,  even,  than 
you  've  ever  been,"— so  he  approached  the  subject, 
while  the  mingled  peace  and  bitterness  of  the  last 
thoughts  lingered  with  him.  ''I  'm  going  to  ask 
you  to  let  me  be  very  indiscreet,  very  intimate. 
It  's  about  something  very  personal." 

Valerie  no  longer  smiled,  but  she  looked  even 
more  gentle  and  even  more  intelligent.  "I  wilJ 
be  as  kind  as  you  can  possibly  want  me  to  be,"  she 
answered. 

"It  's  about— about  Miss  Upton." 

"About  Imogen?  Don't  you  call  her  Imogen 
yet?  You  must." 

"I  will.  I  've  just  begun";  and  with  this  avowal 
Sir  Basil  turned  away  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
even  in  the  moonlight  showed  his  flush.  "I  had  a 
long  talk  with  her  this  afternoon." 

"Yes.  I  supposed  that  you  had.  You  may  be 
perfectly  frank  with  me,"  said  Valerie,  her  eyes  on 
his  averted  face. 

"She  was  most  dreadfully  cut  up,  you  know. 
She  came  rushing  up  to  the  pine  woods — I  was  smok 
ing  there— rushing  up  as  if  she  were  running  for 
her  life— crying,— exhausted,— in  a  dreadful  state." 

"Yes.      I  know." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  301 

"Yes,  of  course  you  do.  What  don't  you  know 
and  what  don't  you  understand,"  said  Sir  Basil 
gratefully,  his  eyes  coming  back  to  hers.  "So  I 
need  n't  go  over  it  all — what  she  feels  about  it. 
I  realize  very  well  that  you  feel  for  her  as  much  as 
I  do." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  must  realize  that,"  said  Valerie, 
a  little  faintly. 

"She  was  in  such  a  state  that  one  simply  had  to 
try  to  comfort  her, — if  one  could, — and  we  have 
come  to  be  such  friends; — so  she  told  me  every 
thing." 

"Yes.     Of  course." 

"Well  that  's  just  it.  What  I  want  to  ask  you 
is — can't  you,  for  her  sake,  quite  apart  from  your 
own  feelings— give  in  about  it?"  So  spoke  Sir 
Basil,  sitting  in  the  moonlight,  the  spark  of  his  ci 
gar  waning  as,  in  the  long  pause  that  followed,  he 
held  it,  forgotten,  in  an  expectant,  arrested  hand. 
Her  voice  had  helped  and  followed  him  with  such 
gentleness,  such  understanding  that,  though  the 
pause  grew,  he  hardly  thought  that  it  needed  the 
added,  "I  do  beg  it  of  you,"  that  he  brought  out 
presently  to  make  her  acquiescence  more  sure;  and 
his  shock  of  disappointment  was  sharpened  by  sur 
prise  to  a  quick  displeasure  when,  her  eyes  passing 
from  his  face  and  resting  for  long  on  the  shadowy 
woods,  she  said  in  a  deadened  voice,  a  voice  strangely 
lacking  in  feeling:— "I  can't." 

He  could  n't  conceal  the  disappointment  nor, 
quite,  the  displeasure.  "You  can't?  Really  you 
can't?— Forgive  me,  but  don't  you  think  she  's  a 


302  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

right  to  have  it  written,  her  father's  life,  you  know, 
if  she  feels  so  deeply  about  it?" 

"I  can't.  I  will  never  give  my  consent,"  Valerie 
repeated. 

"But,  she  's  breaking  her  heart  over  it,"  Sir 
Basil  deeply  protested ;  and  before  the  quality  of  the 
protestation  she  paused  again,  as  though  to  give 
herself  time  to  hide  something. 

"I  know  that  it  is  hard  for  her,"  was  all  she 
said  at  last. 

Protestation  gave  way  to  wonder,  deep  and  sad. 
"And  for  her  sake — for  my  sake,  let  me  put  it — 
you  can't  let  bygones  be  bygones?— You  can't  give 
her  her  heart's  desire? — My  dear  friend,  it  's  such  a 
little  thing. " 

"I  know  that.  But  it  's  for  his  sake  that  I 
can't,"  said  Valerie. 

Sir  Basil,  at  this,  was  silent,  for  a  long  time.  Per 
plexity  mingled  with  his  displeasure,  and  the  pain 
of  failure,  the  strangely  complex  pain. 

She  did  not  care  for  him  enough;  and  she  was 
wrong,  and  she  was  fantastic  in  her  wrongness.  For 
his  sake? — the  dead  husband,  whom,  after  all,  she 
had  abandoned  and  made  unhappy  ?— Imogen's 
words  came  crowding  upon  him  like  a  host  of  warn 
ing  angel  visages.  She  actually  told  him  that  this 
cruel  thwarting  of  her  child  was  for  the  sake  of  the 
child's  father? 

It  was  strange  and  pitiful  that  a  woman  so  sweet, 
so  lovely,  should  so  grotesquely  deceive  herself  as 
to  her  motives  for  refusing  to  see  bare  justice  done. 

"May  I  ask  why  for  him?— I  don't  understand," 
he  said. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  303 

Valerie  now  turned  her  eyes  once  more  on  his 
face.  With  his  words,  with  the  tone,  courteous  yet 
cold,  in  which  they  were  spoken,  she  recognized  a 
reached  landmark.  For  a  long  time  she  had  caught 
glimpses  of  it,  ominously  glimmering  ahead  of  her, 
through  the  sunny  mists  of  hope,  across  the  wide 
stretches  of  trust.  And  here  it  was  at  last,  but  so 
suddenly,  for  all  her  presages,  that  she  almost  lost 
her  breath  for  a  moment  in  looking  at  it  and  what 
it  marked.  Here,  unless  she  grasped,  paths  might 
part.  Here,  unless  she  pleaded,  something  might 
be  slain.  Here,  above  all,  something  might  turn  its 
back  on  her  for  ever,  unless  she  were  disloyal  to  her 
own  strange  trust. 

A  good  many  things  had  been  happening  to  Valerie 
of  late,  but  this  was  really  the  worst,  and  as  she 
looked  at  the  landmark  it  grew  to  be  the  headstone 
of  a  grave,  and  she  saw  that  under  it  might  lie  her 
youth. 

' '  I  don 't  believe  that  you  could  understand,  ever, ' ' 
she  said  at  last  in  an  unaltered  voice,  a  voice,  to  her 
own  consciousness,  like  the  wrapping  of  a  shroud 
about  her.  ' '  It  's  only  I  who  could  feel  it,  so  deeply 
as  to  go  so  far.  All  that  I  can  say  to  you  is  this: 
my  husband  was  a  mediocre  man,  and  a  pretentious 
one.  I  once  loved  him.  I  was  always  sorry  for 
him.  I  must  guard  him  now.  I  cannot  have  him 
exposed.  I  cannot  have  his  mediocrity  and  preten 
tiousness  displayed  to  the  people  there  are  in  the 
world  who  would  see  him  as  he  was,  and  whose  opin 
ion  counts." 

She  knew,  as  she  said  it,  as  she  folded  the  shroud, 
that  he  would  not  be  one  of  those.  Her  husband's 


304  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

pretentiousness  and  mediocrity  would  not  be  ap 
parent  to  the  ingenuous  and  uncomplex  mind  beside 
her.  She  knew  that  mind  too  well  and  had  watched 
it,  of  late,  receiving  with  wondering  admiration  from 
her  daughter's  lips,  echoes  of  her  husband's  fatui 
ties.  She  loved  him  for  his  incapacity  to  see  sad  and 
ugly  and  foolish  facts  as  she  saw  them.  She  loved 
his  manliness  and  his  childishness.  As  she  had 
guarded  the  other,  once  loved,  man  from  revealment 
she  would  have  guarded  this  one  from  ironic  and 
complex  visions.  But  the  lack  that  endeared  him  to 
her  might  lose  him  to  her.  He  could  never  see  as  she 
saw  and  her  fidelity  to  her  own  light  could  in  his 
eyes  be  but  perversity.  Besides,  she  could  guess  at 
the  interpretations  that  loomed  in  his  mind;  could 
guess  at  what  Imogen  had  told  him ;  it  hardly  needed 
his  next  words  to  let  her  know. 

"But  was  he  so  mediocre,  so  pretentious?"  he 
suggested,  with  the  touch  of  timidity  that  comes 
from  a  deeper  hostility  than  one  can  openly  avow.— 
"Are  n't  you  a  little  over-critical—through  being 
disappointed  in  him— personally  ?  Can  you  be  so 
sure  of  your  own  verdict  as  all  that  ?  Other  people, 
who  loved  him — who  always  loved  him  I  mean — are 
sure  the  other  way  round,"  said  Sir  Basil. 

To  prove  herself  faithful,  not  perverse,  whom  must 
she  show  to  him  as  unfaithful  in  very  ardor  for 
Tightness?  In  the  midst  of  all  the  wrenching  of  her 
hidden  passion  came  a  pang  of  maternal  pity.  Imo 
gen's  figure,  bereaved  of  her  father,  of  her  lover, 
desolate,  amazed,  rose  before  her  and,  behind  it,  tho 
hovering,  retributory  gaze  of  her  husband. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  305 

This,  then,  was  what  she  must  pay  for  having 
failed,  for  having  wrecked.  The  money  that  she 
handed  out  must  be  her  love,  her  deep  love,  for  this 
lover  of  her  fading  years,  and  she  knew  that  she  paid 
the  price,  for  everything— paid  the  price,  above  all, 
for  her  right  to  her  own  complex  fidelity,  when  she 
said: 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  my  own  verdict.  I  take  all 
the  responsibility.  I  think  other  people  wrong. 
And  you  must  think  me  wrong,  if  it  looks  to  you 
like  that." 

"But,  it  's  almost  impossible  for  me  to  think  you 
wrong, ' '  said  Sir  Basil,  feeling  that  a  chill  far  frost 
ier  than  the  seeming  situation  warranted  had  crept 
upon  them.  "Even  if  you  are— why  we  all  are,  of 
course,  most  of  the  time,  I  suppose.  It  's  only — it  's 
only  that  I  can't  see  clear.  That  you  should  be  so 
sure  of  an  opinion,  a  mere  opinion,  when  it  hurts 
someone  else,  so  abominably; — it  's  there  I  don't 
seem  to  s6e  you,  you  know." 

"Can't  you  trust  me?"  Valerie  asked.  It  was 
her  last  chance,  her  last  throw  of  the  dice.  She 
knew  that  her  heart  was  suffocating  her,  with  its 
heavy  throbbing,  but  to  Sir  Basil's  ear  her  voice 
was  still  the  deadened,  the  unchanged  voice.  "Can't 
you  believe  in  my  sincerity  when  I  give  you  my 
reasons?  Can't  you,  knowing  me  as  you  do,  for  so 
long,  believe  that  I  am  more  likely  to  be  right,  in  my 
judgment  of  my  husband,  than— other  people?" 

Her  eyes,  dark  and  deep  in  the  moonlight,  were 
steadily  upon  him.  And  now,  probed  to  the  depths, 

he,  too,  was  conscious  of  a  parting  of  the  ways 
20 


306  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

It  was  a  choice  of  loyalties,  and  he  remembered 
those  other  eyes,  sunlit,  limpid,  uplifted,  that  lifted 
him,  too,  with  their  heavenly,  upward  gaze.  He 
stammered ;  he  grew  very  red ;  but  he,  too,  was  faith 
ful  to  his  own  light. 

"Of  course  I  know,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  are 
sincere.  But,  as  to  your  being  right;— in  these 
things,  one  can't  help  seeing  crookedly,  sometimes, 
when  personal  dislike  has  entered  into  a, — a  near 
relationship.  One  really  can  hardly  help  it,  can 
one?—  "  he  almost  pleaded. 

Valerie's  eyes  rested  deeply  and  darkly  upon  him 
and,  as  they  rested,  he  felt,  strangely  and  irresistibly, 
that  they  let  him  go.  Let  him  go  to  sink  or  to 
soar  — that  depended  on  which  vision  were  the  truer. 

He  knew  that  after  his  flush  he  had  become  very 
pale.  His  cigar  had  gone  out ;— he  looked  at  it  with 
a  nervous  gesture.  The  moonlight  was  cold  and 
Valerie  had  turned  away  her  eyes.  But  as  she  sud 
denly  rose,  he  saw,  glancing  from  his  dismal  survey 
of  the  dead  cigar,  that  she  was  smiling  again.  It 
was  a  smile  that  healed  even  while  it  made  things 
hazy  to  him.  Nothing  was  hazy  to  her,  he  was  very 
sure  of  that ;  but  she  would  make  everything  as  easy 
as  possible  to  him — even  the  pain  of  finding  her  so 
wrong,  even  the  pain  of  seeing  that  she  did  n't  care 
enough,  the  complex  pain  of  being  set  free  to  seize 
the  new  happiness— he  was  surer  of  that  than  ever. 

He,  too,  got  up,  grateful,  troubled,  but  warm 
once  more. 

The  moonlight  was  bright  and  golden,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  vines  that  stirred  against  the  sky 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  307 

wavered  all  over  her  as  she  stood  before  him.  So 
strangely  did  the  light  and  shade  move  upon  her, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  she  glided  through  the  ripples 
of  some  liquid,  mysterious  element,  not  air  nor  light 
nor  water,  but  a  magical  mingling  of  the  three.  He 
had  just  time  to  feel,  vaguely,  for  everything  was 
blurred,  this  sense  of  strangeness  and  of  sweetness, 
too,  when  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"Friends,  as  ever,  all  the  same — are  we  not?'' 
she  said. 

Sir  Basil,  knowing  that  if  he  glided  it  was  only 
because  she  took  him  with  her,  grasped  it  tightly, 
the  warm,  tangible  comfort.  "Well  rather!"  he 
said  with  school-boy  emphasis. 

Be  she  as  wrong  as  she  would,  dear  creature  of 
light,  of  shade,  of  mystery,  it  was  indeed  "well 
rather."  Never  had  he  known  how  much  till  now. 

Holding  the  hand,  he  wondered,  gazing  at  her,  how 
much  such  a  friendship,  new  yet  old,  counted  for. 
In  revealing  it  so  fully,  she  had  set  wide  the  door, 
she  had  set  him  free  to  claim  his  soul ;  yet  so  wonder 
fully  did  they  glide  that  no  gross  thought  of  escape 
touched  him  for  a  moment,  so  beautifully  did  she 
smile  that  he  seemed  rather  to  be  gaining  something 
than  to  be  giving  something  up. 


XXIII 

MOGEN  always  looked  back  to  her 
moonlight  walk  with  Jack  as  one  of 
the  few  occurrences  in  her  life  that,  at 
the  time,  she  had  not  understood.  She 
understood  well  enough  afterward, 
with  retrospective  vexation  for  her  so  ludicrous, 
yet,  after  all,  so  natural  innocence.  At  the  time 
she  had  n't  even  seen  that  Jack  had  jockeyed  her 
out  of  a  communing  with  Sir  Basil.  She  had 
actually  thought  that  Jack  might  have  some  word 
of  penitence  or  exculpation  to  say  to  her  after  his 
behavior  that  morning.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she 
could  easily  have  forgiven  him  had  his  lack  of  sym 
pathy  been  for  her  instruments  only  and  not  rather 
for  her  project.  Really,  except  for  the  triumph 
it  had  seemed  to  give  to  her  mother,  the  humilia 
tion  that  it  had  seemed,  vicariously,  to  inflict  upon 
herself,  she  had  n't  been  able  to  defend  herself 
from  a  queer  sense  of  pleasure  in  witnessing  the 
ejection  of  the  Pottses.  With  the  tension  that  had 
come  into  the  scene  they  had  been  in  the  way;  she, 
as  keenly  as  Jack,  had  felt  the  sense  of  unfitness, 
though  she  had  been  willing  to  endure  it,  and  as 
keenly  as  Jack  she  had  felt  Mr.  Potts  as  insuffer 
ably  presuming.  She  had  been  glad  that  his 

308 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  309 

presumption  should  wreak  punishment  upon  her 
mother,  but  glad,  too,  that  when  the  weapon  had 
served  its  purpose,  it  should  be  removed. 

So  her  feelings  toward  Jack,  as  he  led  her 
down  the  woodland  path,  where,  not  so  many 
days  ago— but  how  far  off  they  seemed — she  had 
led  Sir  Basil,  were  not  so  bitter  as  they  might 
have  been.  Bitterness  was  in  abeyance.  She 
waited  to  hear  what  he  might  have  to  say  for 
himself  and  about  her — about  this  new  disaster 
that  had  befallen  her,  and  with  the  thought  of 
the  retribution  that  she  held,  almost,  within  her 
grasp,  came  something  of  a  softening  to  sadness 
and  regret  over  Jack.  In  spite  of  that  glorious  mo 
ment  of  the  pine  woods,  with  its  wide  vistas  into 
the  future,  some  torn  fiber  of  her  heart  would  go 
on  aching  when  she  thought  of  Jack  and  his  lost 
love;  and  when  he  led  her  away  among  the  woods, 
thick  with  trembling  lights  and  shadows,  she  really, 
for  a  little  while,  expected  to  hear  him  say  that, 
sympathize  as  he  might  with  her  mother,  reprobate 
as  he  might  her  own  attitude  toward  her,  there 
were  needs  in  him  deeper  than  sympathies  or  blame ; 
she  almost  expected  him  to  tell  her  that,  above  all, 
he  loved  her  and  could  n't  get  on  without  her. 
Else  why  had  he  asked  her  to  come  and  see  the 
moonlight  in  the  woods  ? 

A  vagueness  hovered  for  her  over  her  own 
attitude  in  case  of  such  an  avowal,  a  vague 
ness  connected  with  the  veil  that  still  hung  be 
tween  her  unavowed  lover  and  herself,  and  even 
as  she  walked  away  with  Jack  she  felt  a  mingled 


310  A   FOUNTAIN   SEALED 

pang  of  eagerness  for  what  he  might  have  to  say 
to  her  and  of  anxiety  for  what,  more  than  his 
petition  on  her  behalf,  Sir  Basil  might  be  drawn 
into  saying  to  her  mother  on  the  veranda.  She 
did  n't  crudely  tell  herself  that  she  would  not 
quite  abandon  Jack  until  the  veil  were  drawn  aside 
and  triumph  securely  attained;  she  only  saw  her 
self,  as  far  as  she  saw  herself  at  all,  as  pausing  be 
tween  two  choices,  pausing  to  Aveigh  which  was 
the  greater  of  the  appealing  needs  and  wrhich  the 
deeper  of  the  proffered  loves.  She  knew  that  the 
balance  inclined  to  Sir  Basil's  side,  but  she  saw  her 
self,  for  this  evening,  sadly  listening,  but  withhold 
ing,  in  its  full  definiteness,  the  sad  rejection  of 
Jack 's  tardy  appeal. 

With  this  background  of  interpretation  it  was, 
therefore,  with  a  growing  perplexity  that  she  heard 
Jack,  beside  her,  or  a  little  before,  so  that  he 
might  hold  back  the  dewy  branches  from  her  way, 
talk  on  persistently,  fluently,  cheerfully,  in  just 
the  same  manner,  with  the  same  alert  voice  and 
pleasant,  though  watchful,  eye,  that  he  had  talked 
at  dinner.  Her  mother  might  have  been  walking 
beside  them  for  all  the  difference  there  was.  Jack, 
the  shy,  the  abrupt,  the  often  awkward,  seemed  in 
fected  with  her  mother's  social  skill.  The  moonlit 
woods  were  as  much  a  mere  background  for  ma 
neuvers  as  the  candle-lit  dinner-table  had  been. 
Not  a  word  of  the  morning's  disaster;  not  a  word  of 
sympathy  or  inquiry ;  not  a  word  of  self-defence  or 
self-exposition ;  not  even  a  word  of  expostulation  or 
reproach. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  311 

As  for  entreaty,  tenderness,  the  drawing  near  once 
more,  the  drop  to  loving  need  after  the  climax  of 
alienation,  she  saw,  by  degrees,  how  illusory  had 
been  any  such  imagining;  she  saw  at  last,  with  a 
sharpness  that  queerly  chilled  her  blood,  that  Jack 
was  abdicating  the  lover's  role  more  decisively  than 
even  before.  Verbal  definiteness  left  hazes  of  possi 
bility  compared  to  this  dreadfully  competent  reti 
cence.  It  was  more  than  evasion,  more  than  reti 
cence,  more  than  abdication  that  she  felt  in  Jack ;  it 
was  a  deep  hostility,  it  was  the  steady  burning  of 
that  flame  that  she  had  seen  in  his  eye  that  morning 
when  she  had  told  her  mother  that  she  was  cruel 
and  shallow  and  selfish.  This  was  an  enemy  who 
walked  beside  her  and,  after  perplexity,  after  the 
folly  of  soft  imaginings,  the  folly  of  having  allowed 
her  heart  to  yearn  over  him  a  little,  and,  perhaps, 
over  herself,  indignation  rushed  upon  her,  and  hu 
miliation,  and  then  the  passionate  longing  for  ven 
geance. 

He  thought  himself  very  cool  and  competent,  this 
skilful  Jack,  leading  her  down  in  the  illumined,  dewy 
woods,  talking  on  and  on,  talking— the  fool— for  so, 
with  a  bitter  smile,  her  inner  commentary  dubbed 
him — of  Manet,  of  Monet,  of  Whistler,  of  the  decom 
position  of  light,  the  vibration  of  color. 

From  the  heat  of  fierce  anger  Imogen  reached  a 
contemptuous  coolness.  She  made  no  attempt  to  stay 
his  volubility ;  she  answered,  quietly,  accurately,  with 
chill  interest,  all  he  said.  They  might  really  have 
met  for  the  first  time  at  dinner  that  night,  were  it 
not  that  Jack 's  competence  was  a  little  feverish,  were 


312  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

it  not  that  her  own  courtesy  was  a  little  edged.  But 
the  swing  from  tender  sadness  to  perplexity,  to  fury, 
to  contempt,  was  so  violent  that  not  until  they 
turned  to  retrace  their  steps  did  a  very  pertinent 
question  begin  to  make  itself  felt.  It  made  itself 
felt  with  the  sudden  leap  to  fear  of  that  underlying 
anxiety  as  to  what  was  happening  on  the  veranda, 
and  the  fear  lit  the  question  with  a  lurid,  though,  as 
yet,  not  a  revealing  flicker.  For  why  had  he  done 
it?  That  was  what  she  asked  herself  as  they  faced 
the  moonlight  and  saw  the  woods  all  dark  on  a  back 
ground  of  mystic  gold.  What  fatuous  complacency 
had  made  him  take  so  much  trouble  just  to  show  her 
how  little  he  cared  for  what  she  might  be  feeling,  for 
what  he  had  himself  once  felt? 

Imogen  pondered,  striding  before  him  with  her 
long,  light  step,  urged  now  by  the  inner  pressure  of 
fear  as  to  the  exchange  that  her  absence  had  made 
possible  between  her  mother  and  Sir  Basil.  It  had 
been  foolish  of  her  to  leave  him  for  so  long,  exposed 
and  helpless.  Instinctively  her  step  hastened  as 
she  went  and,  Jack  following  closely,  they  almost 
ran  at  last,  silent  and  breathing  quickly.  Imogen 
had,  indeed,  the  uncanny  sensation  of  being  pur 
sued,  tracked,  kept  in  sight  by  her  follower.  From 
the  last  thin  screen  of  branches  she  emerged,  finally, 
into  the  grassy  clearing. 

There  was  a  flicker  of  white  on  the  veranda.  In 
the  shadow  of  the  creepers  stood  two  figures,  clasp 
ing  hands.  Her  mother  and  Sir  Basil. 

Fear  beat  suddenly,  suffocatingly,  in  Imogen's 
throat.  A  tide  of  humiliation,  like  the  towering  of 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  313 

a  gigantic  wave  above  her  head,  seemed  to  rise  and 
encompass  her  round  about.  She  had  counted  too 
soon  upon  gladness,  upon  vengeance.  Everything 
was  stripped  from  her,  if— if  Jack  and  her  mother 
had  succeeded.  With  lightning-like  rapidity  her 
mind  grasped  its  suspicion.  She  looked  back  at 
Jack.  His  eyes,  too,  were  fixed  on  the  veranda,  and 
suspicion  was  struck  to  certainty  by  what  she  read 
in  them.  He  was  tense;  he  was  white;  he  was  tri 
umphant.  Too  soon  triumphant!  In  another  mo 
ment  the  imminence  of  her  terror  passed  by.  The 
clasp  was  not  that  of  a  plighting.  It  was  over;  it 
denoted  some  lesser  compact,  one  that  meant,  per 
haps,  success  for  her  almost  forgotten  hope.  But  in 
Jack's  eye  she  had  read  what  was  her  danger. 

Imogen  paused  but  for  a  moment  to  draw  the 
breath  of  a  mingled  relief  and  realization.  Her 
knowledge  was  the  only  weapon  left  in  her  hand, 
and  strength,  safety,  the  mere  semblance  of  dignity, 
lay  in  its  concealment.  If  he  guessed  that  Sir  Basil 
needed  guarding,  he  should  never  guess  that  she  did. 
Already  her  headlong  speed  might  have  jeopardized 
her  secret. 

"What  a  pretty  setting  for  our  elderly  lovers, 
is  n't  it?"  she  said. 

That  her  voice  should  slightly  tremble  was  only 
natural;  he  must  know  that  even  from  full  uncon 
sciousness  such  a  speech  must  be  for  her  a  forced 
and  painful  one. 

Jack  looked  her  full  in  the  eye,  as  steadily  as  she 
looked  at  him. 

"Is  n't  it?"  he  said. 


XXIV 

I  HE  had  seen  through  him  and  she  con 
tinued  to  see  through  him. 

She  had  little  opportunity  for  more 
than  this  passive  part  on  the  next  day, 
a  day  of  goings  and  comings,  when  the 
Pottses  went,  and  Rose,  Mary,  and  Eddy,  arrived. 
He  was  guarding  her  mother's  lover  for  her, 
guarding  him  from  the  allurement  of  her  own  young 
loveliness;  that  was  the  way  Jack  saw  it.  He  was 
very  skilful,  very  competent,  she  had  to  own  that  as 
she  watched  him ;  but  he  was  not  quite  so  omniscient 
as  he  imagined  himself  to  be,  for  he  did  not  know 
that  she  saw.  That  was  Imogen's  one  clue  in  those 
two  or  three  days  of  fear  and  confusion,  days  when, 
actually,  Jack  did  succeed  in  keeping  her  and  Sir 
Basil  apart.  And  she  must  make  no  endeavor  to 
thwart  his  watchfulness ;  she  must  yield  with  appar 
ent  unconsciousness  to  his  combinations,  combina 
tions  that  always  separated  her  and  Sir  Basil;  she 
must  see  him  drive  off  with  Sir  Basil  to  meet  the 
new-comers ;  must  see  him  lead  Sir  Basil  away  with 
himself  and  Eddy  for  a  masculine  smoke  and  talk; 
must  see  him,  after  dinner,  fix  them  all,  irrevoca 
bly,  at  bridge  for  the  re-t  of  the  evening,— and  not 

314 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  3J5 

stir  a  finger; — for  he  did  not  know  that  she  saw  and 
he  did  not  know  that  she,  as  well  as  Sir  Basil,  needed 
guarding.  It  was  here  that  Imogen's  intuition, 
failed  her,  and  that  her  blindness  made  Jack's  task 
the  easier. 

Imogen,  in  these  days,  had  little  time  for  self- 
observation.  She  seemed  living  in  some  dark,  fierce 
region  of  her  nature,  unknown  to  her  till  now, 
where  she  found  only  fear  and  fury  and  the  deep 
determination  not  to  be  defeated  and  bereft.  So 
supremely  real  were  will  and  instinct,  that,  seen 
from  their  dominion,  conscience,  reason,  all  the 
spiritual  tests  she  had  lived  by,  looked  like  far,  pale 
clouds  floating  over  some  somber,  burning  land 
scape,  where,  among  flames  and  darkness,  she  was 
running  for  her  life.  Reason,  conscience,  were  stilt 
with  her,  but  turned  to  the  task  of  self-preservation. 
"He  is  mine.  I  know  it.  I  felt  it.  They  shall  not 
take  him  from  me.  It  is  my  right,  my  duty,  to  keep 
him,  for  he  is  all  that  I  have  left  in  life."  The 
last  veil  descended  upon  her  soul  when,  her  frosty 
young  nature  fired  by  the  fierceness  of  her  resolu 
tion,  she  felt  herself  to  be  passionately  in  love  with 
Sir  Basil. 

On  the  third  day,  the  third  day  of  her  vita 
nuova — so  she  named  it — Jack  had  organized  a  pic 
nic.  They  were  to  drive  ten  miles  to  a  mountain 
lake  among  pine  woods,  and,  thrilling  all  through 
with  rage,  Imogen  saw  Sir  Basil  safely  manoeuvered 
into  the  carriage  with  her  mother,  Rose,  and  Eddy, 
while  she  was  assigned  to  Jack,  Miss  Bocock,  and 
Mary. 


316  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

She  heard  herself  talk  sweetly  and  fluently  during 
the  long,  sunny,  breezy  drive,  heard  Jack  answering 
and  assenting  with  a  fluency,  a  sweetness  as  apt. 
Mary  was  very  silent,  but  Miss  Bocock,  no  doubt, 
found  nothing  amiss  in  the  tone  of  their  inter 
change.  Arrived  at  the  beautiful  spot  fixed  on,  sun 
light  drifting  over  glades  of  fern,  the  shadowy  woods 
encircling  a  lake  of  blue  and  silver,  she  could  say, 
with  just  the  right  emphasis  of  helpless  admira 
tion:  "Wonderful— wonderful;"— could  quote  a 
line  of  Wordsworth,  while  her  eye  passed  over  the 
figure  of  Sir  Basil,  talking  to  Rose  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  and  over  Jack's  figure,  near  at  hand. 

Jack  and  Eddy  had  driven,  and  the  moment  came 
when  they  were  occupied  with  their  horses.  She 
joined  the  others,  and,  presently,  she  was  able  to  draw 
Sir  Basil  a  little  aside,  and  then  still  a  little  further, 
until,  among  the  rosy  aisles,  she  had  him  to  herself. 
Stooping  to  gather  a  tiny  cone  she  said  to  him  in  a 
low  voice:— "Well?— well?— What  did  she  say?" 

Sir  Basil,  too,  lowered  his  voice:— "I  've  wanted 
a  chance  to  tell  you  about  it.  My  dear  child,  I  'm  so 
very  sorry,  but  I  've  been  a  failure.  She  won 't  hear 
of  it.  You  '11  have  to  give  it  up." 

"She  utterly  refused?"  How  far  this  matter  of 
her  father  was  from  her  thoughts— as  far  as  the  pale 
clouds  above  the  fierce,  dark  landscape. 

"Utterly." 

"You  asked  for  your  sake,  as  well  as  for  mine?" 

"I  asked  for  both  our  sakes. " 

"And,"  still  stooping,  her  face  hidden  from  him, 
she  pierced  to  find  the  significance  of  that  moonlight 
hand-clasp,— "and— she  made  you  agree  with  her?" 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  317 

"Agree  with  her? — I  was  most  dreadfully  disap 
pointed,  and  I  had  to  tell  her  so.— How  could  I 
agree  with  her?" 

"She  might  have  made  you." 

"She  did  n't  make  me;— did  n't  try  to,  I  'm 
bound  to  say. ' ' 

"But," — her  voice  breathed  up  to  him  now  with 
a  new  gentleness, — a  gentleness  that,  he  well 
might  think,  covered  heart-brokenness, — "but— you 
have  n't  quarreled  with  her, — on  my  account?  I 
could  n  't  bear  her  to  lose  things,  on  my  account.  She 
thinks  of  you  as  a  friend — values  your  friendship; — 
I  know  it, — I  am  sure  of  it, — even  though  she  would 
not  do  this  for  you.  Some  hatreds  are  too  deep  to 
yield  to  any  appeal;  but  it  is  friendship  I  know; — 
and  I  love  her — in  spite  of  everything." 

She  had  murmured  on  and  on,  parting  the  ferns 
with  her  delicate  hand,  finding  here  and  there  a  lit 
tle  cone,  and  as  Sir  Basil  looked  down  at  the  golden 
hair,  the  pure  line  of  the  cheek,  a  great  wave  of 
thanksgiving  for  the  surety  of  his  freedom  rose  in 
him. 

"Dear,  sweet  child,"  he  said,  "this  is  just  what 
I  would  expect  of  you.  But  don't  let  that  thought 
trouble  you  for  one  moment.  I  do  think  her  wrong, 
but  we  are  perhaps  better  friends  than  ever.  You 
and  I  will  always  care  for  her"— Sir  Basil's  voice 
faltered  a  little  as,  to  himself,  the  significance  of 
these  last  words  was  borne  in  upon  him,  and  Imogen, 
hearing  the  falter,  rose,  feeling  that  she  must  see  as 
well  as  hear. 

And  as  she  faced  him  they  heard  Jack's  cheery 
call: 


318  A  FOUNTAIN   SEALED 

"Sir  Basil— I  say,  Sir  Basil!— You  are  wanted. 
You  must  help  with  the  hampers. ' ' 

Imogen  controlled  every  least  sign  of  exaspera 
tion;  it  was  the  easier,  since  she  had  gained  some 
thing  from  this  snatched  interview.  Her  mother 
had  in  no  way  harmed  her  in  Sir  Basil's  eyes,  and 
this  avowal  of  friendship  might  include  an  abdica 
tion  of  nearer  claims.  And  so  she  walked  back  be 
side  him— telling  him  that  her  cones  were  for  her 
little  cripples.  "You  are  always  thinking  about 
some  one  else's  happiness,"  said  Sir  Basil— with  a 
tranquillity  less  feigned  than  it  had  been  of  late. 
Nothing  was  lost,  nothing  really  desperate  yet.  But, 
during  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  while  they  made 
tea,  spread  viands,  sat  about  on  the  moss  and  rocks 
laughing,  talking,  eating,  the  sense  of  risk  did  not 
leave  her.  Nothing  was  lost,  yet,  but  it  was  just  pos 
sible  that  what  she  had,  in  her  folly,  expected  to  hap 
pen  the  other  night  to  her  and  Jack,  might  really 
happen  to  Sir  Basil  and  her  mother ;  in  the  extremity 
of  alienation  they  might  find  the  depths  of  need. 
He  thought  her  wrong,  but  he  also  thought  her 
charming. 

Sitting  a  little  above  them  all,  on  a  higher  rock, 
watching  them  while  seeming  not  to  watch,  she  felt 
that  her  sense  of  peril  strangely  isolated  her  from  the 
thoughtless  group.  She  could  guess  at  nothing  from 
her  mother 's  face.  She  had  not  spoken  with  her  mother 
since  the  day  of  the  disaster — and  of  the  dawn.  It 
was  probable  that,  like  her  own  sad  benignity,  her 
mother's  placidity  was  nothing  but  a  veil,  but  she 
could  not  believe  that  it  veiled  a  sense  of  peril. 
Under  her  white  straw  hat,  with  broad  black  ribbons 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  319 

tying  beneath  the  chin,  it  was  very  pale— but  that 
was  usual  of  late— and  very  worn,  too,  as  it  should 
be;  but  it  was  more  full  of  charm  than  it  had  any 
right  to  be.  Her  mother— oh!  despite  pallor  and 
fading— was  a  woman  to  be  loved;  and  that  she  be 
lieved  herself  a  woman  loved,  Imogen,  with  a  deep 
stirring  of  indignation  and  antagonism,  suspected. 
Yes,  she  counted  upon  Sir  Basil,  of  that  Imogen 
was  sure,  but  what  she  could  n't  make  out  was 
whether  her  mother  guessed  that  her  confidence  was 
threatened.  Did  she  at  all  see  where  Sir  Basil's 
heart  had  turned,  as  Jack  had  seen?  Was  her 
mother,  too,  capable  of  Jack's  maneuvers? 

From  her  mother  she  looked  at  Sir  Basil,  looked 
with  eyes  marvelously  serene.  He  lounged  delight 
fully.  His  clothes  were  delightfully  right;  they 
seemed  as  much  a  part  of  his  personality  as  the  cones 
were  of  the  pines,  the  ferns  of  the  long  glades. 
Rightness— exquisite,  unconscious  Tightness,  was 
what  he  expressed.  Not  the  Tightness  of  warfare 
and  effort  that  Imogen  believed  in  and  stood  for,  but 
a  Tightness  that  had  come  to  him  as  a  gift,  not  as  a 
conquest,  just  as  the  cones  had  come  to  the  pine- 
trees.  The  way  he  tilted  his  Panama  hat  over  his 
eyes  so  that  only  his  chin  and  crisply  twisted  mus 
tache  were  unshadowed,  the  way  in  which  he  held 
his  cigarette  in  a  hand  so  brown  that  the  gold  of 
the  seal  ring  upon  it  looked  pale,  even  the  way  in 
which  he  wagged,  now  and  then,  his  foot  in  its 
shapely  tan  shoe,— were  all  as  delightful  as  his  Ikn- 
pid  smile  up  at  her  mother,  as  his  voice,  deep,  de 
cisive,  and  limpid,  too. 

Imogen  was  not  aware  of  these  appreciations  in 


320  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

herself  as  she  watched  him  with  that  serene  covert- 
ness,  not  at  all  aware  that  her  senses  were  lending 
her  a  hand  in  her  struggle  for  possession  and  ascen 
dency,  and  giving  to  her  hold  on  the  new  and  threat 
ened  belonging  a  peculiar  tenacity.  But  she  did  tell 
herself,  again  and  again,  with  pride  and  pain,  that 
this  at  last  was  love,  a  love  that  justified  anything, 
and  that  cast  all  lesser  things  aside.  And,  with  this 
thought  of  rejection,  Imogen  found  her  eyes  turning 
to  Jack.  She  looked  at  Jack  as  serenely  as  she  had  at 
Sir  Basil,  and  at  him  she  could  trust  herself  to  look 
more  fixedly. 

Jack's  Tightnesses  were  not  a  bit  like  those  of  na 
ture.  He  was  hesitant,  unfinished,  beside  Sir  Basil. 
His  voice  was  meager,  his  form  was  meager,  his  very 
glance  lacked  the  full,  untroubled  assurance  of  the 
other's.  As  for  his  clothes,  with  a  sly  little  pleasure 
Imogen  noted,  point  by  point,  how  they  just  missed 
easy  perfection.  Very  certainly  this  man  who  had 
failed  her  was  a  trophy  not  comparable  to  the  man 
who  now  cared.  She  told  herself  that  very  often, 
emphasizing  the  unfavorable  contrast.  For,  strangely 
enough,  it  was  now,  at  the  full  distance  of  her  sepa 
ration  from  Jack,  an  irrevocable  separation,  that 
she  needed  the  support  of  such  emphasis.  In  Jack's 
absent  stare  at  the  lake,  his  nervous  features  com 
posed  to  momentary  unconsciousness^  she  could  but 
feel  a  quality  that,  helplessly,  she  must  appre 
ciate.  There  was  in  the  young  man's  face  a  purity, 
a  bravery,  a  capacity  of  subtle  spiritual  choice  that 
made  it,  essentially,  one  of  the  most  civilized  she 
had  ever  known.  Sir  Basil's  brain,  if  it  came  to 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  321 

comparison,   lacked   one   or   two    convolutions   that 
Jack's  undoubtedly  possessed. 

And,  appreciating  the  lost  lover,  as,  through  her 
own  sharpness  of  intelligence  she  was  bound  to  do, 
poor  Imogen  knew  again  the  twisted  pang  of  divided 
desire.  Was  it  the  higher  that  she  had  lost,  or  the 
higher  that  she  so  strangely  struggled  for?  Her 
eyes,  turning  again  on  Sir  Basil,  stayed  themselves 
on  the  assurances  of  his  charm,  his  ease,  his  right- 
nesses;  but  the  worst  bitterness  of  all  lurked  under 
these  consolations;  for,  though  one  was  lost,  the 
other  was  not  securely  gained. 

Imogen,  that  night,  made  another  dash  for  the 
open,  only,  again,  to  be  foiled.  Her  mother  and 
Miss  Bocock  were  safely  on  the  veranda  in  the  moon 
light,  the  others  safely  talking  in  the  drawing-room ; 
Sir  Basil,  only,  was  not  to  be  seen,  and  Imogen  pres 
ently  detected  the  spark  of  his  cigar  wandering 
among  the  flower-borders.  She  could  venture  on 
boldness,  though  she  skirted  about  the  house  to  join 
him.  What  if  Jack  did  see  them  together  ?  It  was 
only  natural  that,  if  she  were  unconscious,  she  should 
now  and  then  seek  out  her  paternal  friend.  But 
hardly  had  she  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the 
house,  hardly  had  Sir  Basil  become  aware  of  her 
approach,  when,  with  laughter  and  chattering  out 
cries  the  whole  intolerable  horde  was  upon  her.  It 
was  Rose  who  voiced  the  associated  proposal,  a 
moonlight  ramble;  it  was  Rose  who  seized  upon  Sir 
Basil  with  her  hateful  air  of  indifferent  yet  assured 
coquetry;  but  Imogen  guessed  that  she  was  a  tool, 

even   if   an   ignorant   one,    in   the   hands   of   Jack. 
21 


322  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Miss  Bocock  and  her  mother  had  not  joined  them 
and,  in  a  last  desperate  hope,  Imogen  said,— 
"Mama,  too,  and  Miss  Bocock,— we  must  n't  leave 
them.  Sir  Basil,  won't  you  go  and  fetch  them?" 
And  then,  Sir  Basil  detached  from  Rose,  on  his  way, 
she  murmured, — "I  must  see  that  she  does  n't  forget 
her  shawl,"  and  darted  after  him.  Once  more  get 
him  to  herself  and,  in  the  obscurity  of  the  woods, 
they  might  elude  the  others  yet.  But,  as  they  ap 
proached  the  veranda,  she  found  that  Jack  was  be 
side  them. 

Neither  Valerie  nor  Miss  Bocock  cared  to  join  the 
expedition ;  and  Valerie,  cryptically,  for  her 
daughter's  understanding,  said:  "Do  you  really 
want  more  scenery,  Sir  Basil?  You  and  Imogen 
had  much  better  keep  us  company  here.  We  have 
earned  a  lazy  evening." 

"Oh,  no,  but  Rose  has  claimed  Sir  Basil  as  her 
cavalier,"  Jack,  astonishingly,  cut  in.  "It  's  all  her 
idea,  so  that  she  could  have  a  talk  with  him.  Do 
you  come,  too,"  Jack  urged.  "It  's  only  a  little 
walk  and  the  moonlight  is  wonderful  among  the 
woods. ' ' 

Mrs.  Upton's  eye  rested  fixedly  upon  him  for  a 
moment.  Imogen  saw  that,  but  could  not  know 
whether  her  mother  shared  her  own  astonishment 
for  Jack's  development  or  whether  the  look  were  of 
the  nature  of  an  interchange.  She  shook  her  head, 
however. 

"No,  thanks,  I  am  too  tired.  Be  sure  and  show 
Sir  Basil  the  view  from  the  rustic  seat,  Imogen. 
And,  oh,  Imogen,  do  you  and  Sir  Basil  go  to  the 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  323 

pantry  and  ask  Selma  for  some  cakes.  You  will 
like  something  to  eat. ' ' 

"I  '11  come,  too,"  said  Jack  cheerfully.  "I  must 
get  my  stick. ' ' 

And  thus  it  was  that  Sir  Basil  remained  stand 
ing  beside  Mrs.  Upton,  while  the  young  couple,  in 
absolute  silence,  accomplished  their  mission. 

Imogen  only  wondered,  as  they  went,  side  by  side, 
swiftly,  round  to  the  pantry,  if  Jack  did  not  hear 
the  deep,  indignant  breaths  she  vainly  tried  to  mas 
ter.  The  rest  of  the  evening  repeated  the  indigni 
ties  of  the  afternoon.  She  was  watched,  guarded, 
baffled.  Proudly  she  relinquished  every  attempt  to 
checkmate;  and  her  mother  was  not  there;  for  the 
moment  there  was  no  anxiety  on  that  score.  But 
the  sense  of  deep  breathing  did  not  leave  her.  What 
would  n't  Jack  do?  She  was  quite  sure  that  he 
would  lie,  if,  technically,  he  had  not  lied  already. 
The  stick  had  been  in  the  hall  near  the  pantry.  If  it 
had  n't;— well,  with  her  consciousness  of  whistling 
speed,  of  a  neck-to-neck  race,  she  really  would  not 
have  had  time  for  a  pause  of  wonder  and  condemna 
tion. 


XXV 

HE  woke  next  morning  to  that  fierce 
consciousness  of  a  race.  And  the  goal 
must  now  be  near,  defeat  or  victory 
imminent. 

It  was  early  and  she  dressed  quickly. 
She  could  n't  boldly  rap  at  Sir  Basil's  door  and  call 
him  to  join  her  in  the  garden  for  a  dewy  walk  be 
fore  breakfast,  for  Jack 's  was  the  room  next  his ; 
but,  outside,  as  she  drifted  back  and  forth  over  the 
lawn,  in  full  view  of  his  window,  she  sang  to  her 
self,  so  that  he  could  hear,  sang  sweetly,  loudly, 
sadly,  a  strain  of  Wagner.  It  happened,  indeed,  to 
be  the  Pilgrim's  March  from  Tannhauser  that  she 
fixed  upon  for  her  aubade.  Jack  would  never  sus 
pect  such  singing,  and  Sir  Basil  must  surely  seize 
its  opportunity.  But  he  did  not  appear.  She  sur 
mised  that  he  was  not  yet  up  and  that  it  might  be 
wiser  to  wait  for  him  in  the  dining-room. 

As  she  crossed  the  veranda  she  heard  voices 
around  the  corner,  a  snatch  of  talk  from  two  other 
early  risers  sitting  outside  the  drawing-room  win 
dows.  Mary  and  Rose;  she  placed  them,  as  she 
paused. 

"But  Jack  himself  often  talks  in  just  that  way," 

324 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  325 

Mary  was  saying,  pained  it  was  evident,  and  puzzled, 
too,  by  some  imputation  that  she  had  n't  been  able 
to  deny. 

"Yes,  dear  old  Jack,"  Rose  rejoined;  "he  does 
talk  in  a  very  tiresome  way  sometimes;  so  do  you, 
Mary  my  darling;— you  are  all  tarred  with  the  same 
solemn  brush ;  but,  you  see,  it  's  just  that ;  one  may 
talk  like  a  prig  and  yet  not  be  one.  Jack,  behind 
the  big  words,  means  them  all,  is  them  all,  really. 
Whereas  Imogen;— why  she  's  little— little— little. 
Even  Jack  has  found  that  out  at  last." 

"Rose!  Rose!  Don't— It  's  not  true.  I  can't 
believe  it!  I  won't  believe  it!"  broke  from  Mary. 
Her  chair  was  pushed  back  impetuously,  and  Imogen 
darted  into  the  dining-room  and  from  there  into  the 
hall  to  find  herself,  at  last,  face  to  face  with  Sir 
Basil. 

"I  hoped  I  'd  find  you.  I  heard  you  singing  in 
the  garden.  What  is  that  thing,— Gounod,  is  n't  it? 
Do  let  's  have  a  turn  in  the  garden." 

But  even  as  he  said  it,  holding  her  hand,  the  fatal 
chink  of  the  approaching  breakfast  tray  told  them 
that  the  opportunity  had  come  too  late.  Rose  and 
Mary  already  were  greeting  them,  Jack  and  Miss 
Bocock  called  morning  wishes  from  above. 

Valerie  was  a  late  riser;  and  Imogen,  behind  the 
tea-pot  and  coffee,  was  always  conscious  of  offering 
a  crisp  and  charming  contrast  to  lax  self-indulgence. 
But  this  morning,  as  they  all  hemmed  her  in,  fixed 
her  in  her  rightful  place,  her  cheeks  irrepressibly 
burned  with  vexation  and  disappointment.  The 
overheard  insolence,  too,  had  been  like  a  sudden  slap. 


326  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

She  mastered  herself  sufficiently  to  kiss  Mary 's  cheek 
and  to  take  Rose's  hand  with  a  gaze  of  pure  uncon 
sciousness,  a  gaze  that  should  have  been  as  a  coal  of 
fire  laid  upon  her  venomous  head. 

But  Rose  showed  no  symptom  of  scorching.  She 
trailed  to  her  place,  in  a  morning-gown  all  lace  and 
ribbons,  smiling  nonchalantly  at  Jack  and  saucily  at 
Sir  Basil,  with  whom  she  had  established  relations 
of  chaffing  coquetry;  she  told  Imogen  to  remember 
that  she  liked  her  coffee  half-and-half  with  a  lot  of 
cream  and  three  lumps  of  sugar.  She  looked  as 
guiltless  as  poor  Mary  looked  guilty. 

"Eddy  's  late  as  usual,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 

"He  inherits  laziness  from  mama,"  Imogen 
smiled,  putting  in  four  lumps,  a  trivial  vengeance 
she  could  not  resist. 

* '  Some  of  her  charms  he  has  inherited,  it  's  true. ' ' 
Rose,  in  the  absence  of  her  worshiped  hostess  gave 
herself  extreme  license  in  guileless  prods  and  thrusts. 
"I  only  wish  he  had  inherited  more.  Here  you  are, 
Eddy,  after  all,  falsifying  my  hopes  of  you.  We 
are  talking  about  your  hereditary  good  points, 
Eddy;— in  what  others,  except  morning  laziness,  do 
you  resemble  your  mother  ? ' ' 

"Well,  I  hate  strings  of  milk  in  my  coffee,"  said 
Eddy,  bending  over  his  sister  to  put  a  perfunctory 
kiss  upon  her  brow,  "and  as  I  observe  one  in  that 
cup  I  hope  it  's  not  intended  for  me.  Imogen,  why 
won't  you  use  the  strainer?" 

With  admirable  patience,  as  if  humoring  two 
spoiled  children,  Imogen  filled  another  cup  with 
greater  care. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  327 

"Mama  feels  just  as  I  do  about  strings  in  cof 
fee,"  said  Eddy,  bearing  away  his  cup.  "We  are 
both  of  us  very  highly  organized." 

"You  must  n't  be  over-sensitive,  you  know," 
said  Imogen,  "else  you  will  unfit  yourself  for  life. 
There  are  so  many  strings  in  one's  coffee  in  life." 

"The  fit  avoid  them,"  said  Eddy,  "as  I  do." 

"You  inherit  that,  too,  from  mama,"  said  Imo 
gen,  "the  avoidance  of  difficulties.  Do  try  some  of 
our  pop-overs,  Miss  Bocock;  it  's  a  national  dish." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  this  morning,  Imo 
gen?"  Jack  asked,  and  she  felt  that  his  eye  braved 
hers.  "It  's  your  Girls'  Club  morning,  is  n't  it? 
That  will  do  beautifully  for  you,  Miss  Bocock.  I  've 
been  telling  Miss  Bocock  about  it;  she  is  very  much 
interested." 

"Very  much  indeed.  I  am  on  the  committee  of 
such  a  club  in  England,"  said  Miss  Bocock;  "I 
should  like  to  go  over  it  with  you." 

Imogen  smiled  assent,  while  inwardly  she  mut 
tered  "Snake!"  Her  morning,  already,  was  done 
for.  unless,  indeed,  she  could  annex  Sir  Basil  as  a 
third  to  the  party  and,  with  him,  evade  Miss  Bocock 
for  a  few  brief  moments.  But  brief  moments  could 
do  nothing  for  them.  They  needed  long  sunny  or 
moonlit  solitudes. 

"We  must  be  alone  together,  under  the  stars,  for 
our  souls  to  see,"  Imogen  said  to  herself,  while  she 
poured  the  coffee,  while  she  met  Jack's  eye,  while, 
beneath  this  highest  thought,  the  lesser  comment  of 
"Snake!"  made  itself  heard. 

"What  's  become  of  that  interesting  girl  who  had 


328  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

the  rival  club,  Imogen?"  Rose  asked.  "The  one 
you  squashed. ' ' 

"We  make  her  very  welcome  when  she  comes  to 
ours. ' '  Imogen  did  not  descend  to  self -exculpation. 
She  spoke  gently  and  gravely,  casting  only  a  glance 
at  Sir  Basil,  as  if  calling  him  to  witness  her  pained 
magnanimity. 

"It  would  be  fun,  you  know,  to  help  her  to  start 
a  new  one,"  said  Rose;— "something  rebellious  and 
anarchic.  Will  you  help  me  if  I  do,  Eddy  ?  Come, 
let  's  sow  discord  in  Imogen's  Eden,  like  a  couple  of 
serpents." 

Reptilian  analogies  seemed  uppermost  this  morn 
ing;  Imogen  felt  their  fitness  while,  smiling  on,  she 
answered:  "I  don't  think  that  mere  rebellion— not 
only  against  Eden  but  against  the  Tree  of  Know 
ledge  as  well— would  carry  you  far,  Rose.  Your 
membership  would  be  of  three — Mattie  and  the  two 
serpents." 

Sir  Basil  laughed  out  at  the  retort. 

"You  evidently  don't  know  the  club  and  all 
those  delightful  young  women,"  he  said  to  Rose. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed  I  do.  Every  one  sees  Imogen's 
clubs.  I  don't  think  them  delightful.  Women  in 
crowds  are  always  horrid.  We  are  only  tolerable  in 
isolation." 

"You  hand  over  to  us,  then, "—it  was  Jack  who 
spoke,  and  with  his  usual  impatience  when  bending 
to  Rose's  folly. — "all  the  civic  virtues,  all  the  virtues 
of  fraternity?" 

"With  pleasure ;  they  are  becoming  to  nobody,  for 
that  matter.  But  I  'm  quite  sure  that  men  are 
brothers.  Women  never  are  sisters,  however,  unless, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  329 

sometimes,  we  are  sisters  to  you,"  Rose  added  de 
murely,  at  which  Sir  Basil  gave  a  loud  laugh. 

Imogen,  though  incensed,  was  willing  that  on  this 
low  ground  of  silly  flippancy  Rose  should  make  her 
little  triumphs.  She  kept  her  smile.  "I  don't 
think  that  those  of  us  who  are  capable  of  another 
sisterhood  will  agree  with  you,"  and  her  smile 
turned  on  Mary  another  coal  of  fire,  for  she  sus 
pected  Mary  of  apostasy.  "I  don't  think  that  the 
women  whose  aim  in  life  is — well — to  make  brothers 
of  men  in  Rose's  sense,  can  understand  sisterhood  at 
all,  as,  for  instance,  Mary  and  I  do." 

"Oh,  you  and  Mary!"— Rose  tapped  her  egg 
shell  and  salted  her  egg.  "That  's  not  sisterhood; — 
that  's  prophetess  and  proselyte.  You  're  an  an 
archist  to  the  bone,  Imogen,  like  the  rest  of  us; — 
you  could  n't  bear  to  share  anything — It  's  like 
children  playing  games: — If  I  can't  be  the  driver, 
I  won't  play  horses." 

' '  Oh,  Rose ! ' '  came  in  distressed  tones  from  Mary ; 
but  Imogen  did  not  flinch  from  her  serenity. 

Outside  on  the  veranda,  where  they  all  wandered 
after  breakfast,  her  moment  came  at  last.  Jack 
had  walked  away  with  Mary;  Miss  Bocock,  with  a 
newspaper,  stood  in  the  shade  at  a  little  distance. 
Rose  and  Eddy  were  wandering  among  the  flowers. 

Imogen  knew,  as  she  found  herself  alone  with  Sir 
Basil,  that  the  impulse  that  rose  in  her  was  the 
crude  one  of  simply  snatching.  She  controlled  its 
demonstration  so  that  only  a  certain  breathlessness 
was  in  her  voice,  a  certain  brilliancy  in  her  eye,  as 
she  said  to  him,  rapidly:— 

"He  will  never  let  you  see  me!    Never!'* 


330  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"  He  ?  Who  ? —What  do  you  mean  ? "  Sir  Basil, 
startled,  stared  at  her. 

' '  Jack !     Jack !     Have  n  't  you  noticed  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  see.  Yes,  I  see."  His  glance  became  il 
luminated.  In  a  voice  as  low  as  her  own  he  asked: 
"What  does  it  mean?— I  never  can  get  a  word  with 
you.  He  's  always  there.  He  's  very  devoted  to 
you,  I  know;  but,  I  supposed  that— well,  that  his 
chance  was  over." 

His  hesitation,  the  appeal  of  his  glance,  were 
lightning-flashes  of  assurance  for  Imogen,  opening 
her  path  for  her. 

"It  is  over; — it  is  over; — but  it  's  false  that  he 
is  devoted  to  me,"  she  whispered.  "He  hates  me. 
He  is  my  enemy." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  gasped  Sir  Basil. 

"And  since  he  failed  to  win  me — Don't  you  see — 
It  's  through  sheer  spite— sheer  hatred." 

Her  brilliant  eyes  were  on  him  and  a  further 
"Oh!"  came  from  Sir  Basil  as  he  received  this  long 
ray  of  illumination.  And  it  was  so  dazzling,  al 
though  Imogen,  after  her  speech,  had  cast  down  her 
eyes,  revealing  nothing  more,  that  he  murmured 
hastily :—" Can't  I  see  you,  Imogen,  alone;— can't 
you  arrange  it  in  some  way?" 

Imogen 's  eyes  were  still  cast  down,  while,  the  pur 
pose  that  was  like  a  possession,  once  attained,  her 
thoughts  rushed  in,  accused,  exculpated,  a  wild  con 
fusion  that,  in  another  moment  had  built  for  her 
self-respect  the  shelter  of  a  theory  that,  really,  quite 
solidly  sustained  the  statement  so  astounding  to  her 
self  when  it  had  risen  to  her  lips.  Hatred,  spite; 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  331 

yes,  these  were  motives,  too,  in  Jack's  treachery; 
she  had  n't  spoken  falsely,  though  it  had  been  with 
the  blindness  of  the  overmastering  purpose.  And 
her  dignity  was  untarnished  in  Sir  Basil's  eyes,  for, 
she  had  seen  it  at  last,  her  path  was  open;  she  had 
only  to  enter  it. 

Her  heart  seemed  to  flutter  in  her  throat  as  she 
said  on  the  lowest,  most  incisive  note :  "Yes, — I,  too, 
want  to  see  you,  Sir  Basil.  I  am  so  lonely; — you 
are  the  only  one  who  cares,  who  understands,  who 
is  near  me.  There  must  be  real  truth  between  us. 
This  morning — he  has  prevented  that.  But  to 
night,  after  we  have  all  gone  up-stairs,  come  out 
again,  by  the  little  door  at  the  back,  and  meet  me — 
meet  me — "  her  voice  wavered  a  little,  "at  the  rustic 
bench,  up  in  the  woods,  where  we  went  last  night. 
There  we  can  talk."  And  catching  suddenly  at  all 
the  nobility,  so  threatened  in  her  own  eyes,  remem 
bering  her  love  for  him,  her  great  love,  and  his  need, 
his  great  need,  of  her,  she  smiled  deeply,  proudly 
at  him  and  said : 

"We  will  see  each  other,  at  last,  and  each  other's 
truth,  under  God's  stars." 


XXVI 

had  drawn  Mary  aside,  around  the 
sunny  veranda,  and,  out  of  ear-shot  of 
everybody,  a  curious  intentness  in  his 
demeanor,  he  asked  her  to  run  up  to 
Mrs.  Upton's  room  and  ask  her  if  she 
would  n't  take  a  drive  with  him  that  morning. 
Since  the  Uptons'  impoverishment  their  little  stable 
was,  perforce,  empty;  and  it  was  Jack  who  ordered 
the  buggy  from  the  village  and  treated  the  company 
in  turn  to  daily  drives. 

Mary  departed  on  her  errand,  hearing  Jack  tele 
phoning  to  the  livery-stable  as  she  went  upstairs. 

She  had  to  own  to  herself  that  the  charm  had 
grown  on  her,  and  the  fact  of  her  increasing  fond 
ness  for  Imogen 's  mother  made  the  clearer  to  her  all 
the  new,  vague  pain  in  regard  to  Imogen.  Imogen, 
to  Mary's  delicate  perception  of  moral  atmosphere, 
was  different;  she  had  felt  it  from  the  moment  of 
her  arrival.  No  one  had  as  yet  enlightened  her  as 
to  the  Potts 's  catastrophe,  but  even  by  its  interpre 
tation  she  would  have  found  the  change  hard  to 
understand.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  that  she, 
Mary,  was  selfish  and  felt  herself  to  be  of  less  im 
portance  to  Imogen.  Mary  was  always  conscious 
of  relief  when  she  could  fix  responsibility  upon  her- 

332 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  333 

self,  and  she  was  adjusting  all  sorts  of  burdens  on 
her  conscience  as  she  knocked  at  Mrs.  Upton's  door. 

The  post  had  just  arrived,  and  Valerie,  standing 
near  her  dressing-table,  was  reading  her  letters  as 
Mary  came  in.  Mary  had  never  so  helplessly  felt 
the  sense  of  charm  as  this  morning. 

She  wore  a  long  white  dressing-gown  of  frilled 
lawn,  tied  with  black  ribbons  at  throat  and  wrists. 
Her  abundant  chestnut  hair,  delicately  veined  with 
white,  was  braided  into  two  broad  plaits  that  hung 
below  her  waist,  and  her  face,  curiously  childlike  so 
seen,  was  framed  in  the  banded  masses.  Mary  could 
suddenly  see  what  she  had  looked  like  as  a  little 
girl.  So  moved  was  she  by  the  charm  that,  Puri 
tan  as  she  was,  she  found  herself  involuntarily  say 
ing: — ''Oh,  Mrs.  Upton,  what  beautiful  hair  you 
have." 

"It  is  nice,  is  n't  it?"  said  Valerie,  looking  more 
than  ever  like  a  child,  a  pleased  child;  "I  love  my 
hair." 

Mary  had  taken  one  braid  and  was  crunching  it 
softly,  like  spun  silk,  in  her  hand.  She  could  n't 
help  laughing  out  at  the  happy  acceptance  of  her  ad 
miring  speech ;  the  charm  was  about  her ;  she  under 
stood;  it  was  n't  vanity,  but  something  flower-like. 

"You  have  heaps,  too,"  said  Valerie. 

"Oh,  but  it  's  sand-colored.  And  I  do  it  so  hor 
ribly.  It  is  so  heavy  and  pulls  back  so." 

' '  I  know ;  that  's  the  difficulty  with  heaps  of  hair. 
But  I  had  a  very  clever  maid,  and  she  taught  me 
how  to  manage  it.  Sand-color  is  a  lovely  color  as  a 
background  to  the  face,  you  know." 


334  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Valerie  rarely  made  personal  remarks  and  rarely 
paid  compliments.  She  had  none  of  the  winning  al 
lurements  of  the  siren ;  Mary  had  realized  that  and 
was  now  realizing  that  genuine  interest,  even  if  reti 
cent,  may  be  the  most  fragrant  of  compliments. 

' '  I  wish  you  would  let  me  show  you  how  to  do  it, ' ' 
Valerie  added. 

Mary  blushed.  There  had  always  been  to  her,  in 
her  ruthless  hair-dressing,  an  element  of  severe  can 
dor,  the  recognition  of  charmlessness,  a  sort  of  hom 
age  paid  to  wholesome  if  bitter  fact.  Mrs.  Upton 
was  not,  in  her  flower-like  satisfaction,  one  bit  vain ; 
but  Mary  suspected  herself  of  feeling  a  real  thrill 
of  tempted  vanity.  The  form  of  the  temptation 
was,  however,  too  sweet  to  be  rejected,  and  Mrs.  Up 
ton's  hair  was  so  simply  done,  too,  though,  she  sus 
pected,  done  with  a  guileful  simplicity.  It  would  n't 
look  vain  to  do  it  like  that ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
would  probably  take  three  times  as  long  to  do ;  there 
was  always  the  question  of  one's  right  to  employ 
precious  moments  in  personal  adornment.  "How 
kind  of  you,"  she  murmured.  "I  am  so  stupid 
though.  Could  I  really  learn?  And  would  n't  it 
take  up  a  good  deal  of  my  time  every  morning?" 

Valerie  smiled.  "Well,  it  's  a  nice  way  of  spend 
ing  one's  time,  don't  you  think?" 

This  was,  somehow,  quite  unanswerable,  and  Mary 
had  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light.  She  sat  down 
before  Valerie's  pretty,  tipped  mirror  and  looked 
with  some  excitement  at  the  rows  of  glittering  toilet 
utensils  set  out  before  her.  She  was  sure  that  Mrs. 
Upton  found  it  nice  to  spend  a  great  deal  of  time 
before  her  mirror. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  335 

"It  is  so  kind  of  you,"  she  repeated.  "And  it 
will  be  so  interesting  to  see  how  you  do  it.  And, 
oh,  I  am  forgetting  the  thing  I  came  for— how 
stupid,  how  wrong  of  me.  It  's  a  message  from 
Jack.  He  wants  to  know  if  you  will  drive  with 
him." 

"And  what  are  all  the  plans  for  to-day?"  Mrs. 
Upton  asked  irrelevantly,  unpinning  the  clustered 
knobs  at  the  back  of  Mary's  head  and  softly  shak 
ing  out  the  stringently  twisted  locks  as  she  un 
coiled  them. 

"It  is  so  kind  of  you;— but  ought  n't  I  to  take 
Jack  his  answer  first?" 

"The  answer  will  wait.  He  has  his  letters  to 
see  to  now.  What  are  they  all  doing  ? ' ' 

"Well,  let  me  see;  Rose  is  in  the  hammock  and 
Eddy  is  talking  to  her.  Imogen  is  going  to  take 
Miss  Bocock  to  see  her  club. ' ' 

"Oh,  it  is  Imogen's  club  day,  is  it?  She  asked 
Miss  Bocock?" 

"Miss  Bocock  asked  her,  or,  rather,  Jack  told  her 
that  he  had  been  telling  Miss  Bocock  about  it;  it 
was  Jack  who  asked.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  she 
would  be  interested  in  it; — a  big,  fine  person  like 
Miss  Bocock  would  be  bound  to  be." 

"Um,"  Valerie  seemed  vaguely  to  consider  as  she 
passed  the  comb  down  the  long  tresses.  "I  don't 
think  that  I  can  let  Imogen  carry  off  Miss  Bocock  ;— 
Miss  Bocock  can  go  to  the  club  another  day ;  I  want 
to  do  some  gardening  with  her  this  morning;  she  's 
a  very  clever  gardener,  did  you  know?— So  I  shall 
be  selfish.  Imogen  can  take  Sir  Basil;  he  likes 
walks." 


336  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Mrs.  Upton  was  now  brushing,  and  very  dexter 
ously;  but  Mary,  glancing  at  her  with  a  little  anx 
iety  for  the  avowed  selfishness,  fancied  that  she  was 
not  thinking  much  about  the  hair.  Mary  could  not 
quite  interpret  the  change  she  felt  in  the  lovely 
face.  Something  hard,  something  controlled  was 
there. 

"But  Jack?"— she  questioned. 

"Well,  Jack  can  take  you  on  the  drive.  You 
and  he  have  seen  very  little  of  each  other  since 
you  've  come ;  such  old  friends  as  you  are,  too. ' ' 

"Yes,  we  are,"  said  Mary,  gazing  abstractedly 
at  her  own  face,  now,  in  the  mirror,  and  forgetting 
both  her  own  transformation  and  the  face  that  bent 
above  her.  A  familiar  cloud  of  pain  gathered  within 
her  and,  suddenly,  she  found  herself  bursting  out 
with:— "Oh,  Mrs.  Upton— I  am  so  unhappy  about 
Jack!" 

Valerie,  in  the  mirror,  gave  her  a  keen,  quick 
glance.  "I  am,  too,  Mary,"  she  said. 

Mary,  at  this,  turned  in  her  chair  to  look  up  at 
her:— "You  see,  you  feel  it,  too!" 

"That  he  is  unhappy?     Yes,  I  see  and  feel  it." 

"And  you  care;— I  am  sure  that  you  care." 

"I  care  very  much.      I  love  Jack  very  much." 

Mary  seized  her  hand  and  tears  filled  her  eyes. 
"Oh,  you  are  a  dear! — One  must  love  him  when  one 
really  knows  him,  must  n't  one?— Mrs.  Upton,  I  've 
known  Jack  all  my  life  and  he  is  simply  one  of  the 
noblest,  deepest,  realest  people  in  the  .whole  world." 

"I  am  sure  of  that." 

"Well,  then,  can't  you  help  him?"  Mary  cried. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  337 

"How  can  I  help  him?— In  what  way?"  Valerie 
asked,  her  grave  smile  fading. 

"With  Imogen.  It  's  that,  you  see,  their  aliena 
tion,  that  's  breaking  his  heart. 

' '  Of  course  you  've  seen  it  all  more  clearly  than  I 
have,"  Mary  went  on,  her  hair  about  her  face,  her 
hand  clasping  Valerie's;— "Of  course  you  under 
stand  it,  and  everything  that  has  happened  to  them. 
I  love  Imogen,  too— please  don't  doubt  that;— but, 
but,  I  can't  but  feel  that  it  's  her  mistake,  her  blind 
ness  that  has  been  the  cause.  She  could  n't  ac 
cept  it,  you  see,  that  he  should— stand  for  a  new 
thing,  and  be  loyal  to  the  old  thing  at  the  same 
time." 

Valerie,  now,  had  sunken  into  a  chair  near  Mary's, 
and  one  hand  was  still  in  Mary's  hand,  and  in  the 
other  she  still  held  a  tress  of  Mary's  hair.  She 
looked  down  at  this  tress  while  she  said: — "But 
Imogen  was  right,  quite  right.  He  could  n't  stand 
for  the  new  thing  and  be  loyal  to  the  old." 

Mary's  eyes  widened:  "You  mean, — Mrs.  Up 
ton?—" 

"Just  what  you  do.     That  I  am  the  cause." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  Mary's  and  the  girl  became 
scarlet. 

"Oh,— you  do  see  it  all,"  she  breathed. 

"All,  all,  Mary.  To  Imogen  I  stand,  I  must 
stand,  for  the  wrong;  to  Jack— though  he  can't 
think  of  me  very  well  as  'standing'  for  anything, 
I  'm  not  altogether  in  that  category.  So  that  his 
championship  of  me  judges  him  in  Imogen's  eyes. 

Imogen  has  had  a  great  deal  to  bear.      Have  you 

22 


338  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

heard  of  the  last  thing?  She  has  not  told  you? 
I  have  refused  my  consent  to  her  having  a  biography 
of  her  father  written.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  it." 

"Oh,  I  had  n't  heard  anything.  You  would  n't 
consent?  Oh,  poor  Imogen!" 

"It  is,  poor  Imogen.  In  this,  too,  she  has  found 
no  sympathy  in  Jack.  All  his  sympathy  is  with 
me.  It  has  been  the  end,  for  both  of  them.  And 
it  is  inevitable,  Mary. ' ' 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Upton,  what  can  I  say — what  can  I 
think?— I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  see  who  is  right 
and  who  is  wrong ! ' '  Mary  covered  the  confusion 
of  her  thoughts  by  burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"No;  one  can't  see.     That  's  what  one  finds  out." 

"Of  course,  I  have  always  thought  Mr.  Upton  a 
very  wonderful  person,"  Mary  murmured  from  be 
hind  her  hands,  her  Puritan  instinct  warning  her 
that  now,  when  it  gave  her  such  pain,  was  the  time 
above  all  others  for  a  "testifying,"  a  "bearing  wit 
ness.  "—"But  I  know  that  Jack  never  felt  about  that 
as  I  did.  Of  course  I,  too,  think  that  the  biography 
ought  to  be  written." 

Valerie  was  silent,  and  her  silence,  Mary  felt,  was 
definitive. 

She  would  n't  explain  herself;  she  would  n't  seek 
self -exculpation;  and  while,  with  all  her  humility, 
Mary  felt  that  as  a  little  stinging,  she  felt  it,  also,  as 
something  of  a  relief.  Mrs.  Upton,  no  doubt,  was 
indifferent  as  to  her  opinion  of  her  Tightness  and  her 
wrongness,  and  Mrs.  Upton — there  was  the  comfort 
of  it,— was  a  person  whom  one  must  put  on  one  side 
when  it  came  to  judgments.  She  did  n't  seem  to 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  339 

belong  to  any  of  the  usual  categories.  One  did  n't 
want  to  judge  her.  One  was  thankful  for  the  haze 
she  made  about  herself  and  her  motives.  That  Jack 
understood  her  was,  Mary  felt  sure,  the  result  of 
some  peculiar  perspicacity  of  Jack's,  for  she  did  n't 
believe  that  Mrs.  Upton  had-  ever  explained  or  ex 
culpated  herself  to  Jack,  either.  It  even  dawned  on 
her  that  his  perspicacity  perhaps  consisted  mainly  in 
the  sense  of  trust  that  she  herself  was  experiencing. 
She  trusted  Mrs.  Upton,  were  she  right,  or  were  she 
wrong,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  With  that  final 
^realization  she  uncovered  her  eyes  and  met  her 
hostess's  eyes  again,  eyes  so  soft,  so  clear,  but  with, 
in  them,  a  look  of  suffering.  Childlike,  her  hair 
folding  behind  her  cheek  and  neck,  she  was  faded, 
touched  with  age ;  Mary  had  never  seen  it  so  clearly. 
Somehow  it  made  her  even  sorrier  than  the  suffering 
she  recognized. 

"Oh,  but  it  's  been  hard  for  you,  too,"  she  ex 
claimed,  shyly  but  irrepressibly,  "everything,  all  of 
it.  Just  let  me  say  that. ' ' 

Valerie  had  blushed  her  infrequent,  vivid  blush. 
She  rose  and  came  behind  Mary's  chair  again,  gath 
ering  up  the  abandoned  tresses.  But  before  she  be 
gan  to  comb  and  coil  she  said, ' '  Thanks, ' '  leaning  for 
ward  and,  very  lightly,  kissing  the  girl's  forehead. 

After  that  there  was  silence  between  them  while 
the  work  of  hair-dressing  went  on.  Valerie  did  not 
speak  again  until,  softly  forming  the  contour  of  the 
transfigured  head,  she  said,  looking  at  Mary's  re 
flection  with  an  air  of  quiet  triumph; — "Now,  is  not 
that  charming?" 


340  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Charming;  perfectly  charming,"  Mary  replied, 
vaguely ;  the  tears  were  near  her  eyes. 

"You  must  come  again,  to-morrow,  and  do  it  un 
der  my  supervision.  It  only  needs  this,  now." 
She  thrust  two  heavy  tortoise-shell  pins  into  the 
coils  on  either  side  of  Mary's  head. 

"Those  beautiful  pins!  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose 
them!" 

"But  they  are  yours,— mementoes  of  the  new  era 
in  hair-dressing.  I  have  several  of  them.  There, 
you  are  quite  as  I  would  have  you,— as  far  as  your 
head  goes." 

"Not  as  far  as  the  rest  of  me  goes,  I  'm  afraid," 
said  Mary,  laughing  in  spite  of  herself,  and  lured 
from  sadness. 

"I  wish  you  'd  let  me  make  the  rest  of  you  to 
match, ' '  said  Valerie.  "I  've  always  loved  dressing 
people  up.  I  loved  dressing  my  dolls  when  I  was  a 
child.  That  stiff  shirt  does  n  't  go  with  your  head. ' ' 

"No,  it  does  n't.  I  really  don't  see,"  said  Mary 
tentatively,  "why  one  should  n't  regard  dressing  as 
a  form  of  art;  I  mean,  of  course,  as  long  as  one 
keeps  it  in  its  proper  place,  as  it  were." 

' '  To  get  it  in  its  proper  place  is  to  dress  well,  don 't 
you  think.  I  found  such  a  pretty  lawn  dress  of 
mine  in  a  trunkful  of  things  put  away  here;  it  's 
a  little  too  juvenile  for  me,  now,  and,  besides,  I  'm 
in  mourning.  May  I  put  you  into  it?" 

"But  I  should  feel  so  odd,  so  frivolous.  I  'm 
such  a  staid,  solemn  person." 

"But  the  dress  is  staid,  too, — a  dear  little  auster 
ity  of  a  dress;— it  's  just  as  much  you  as  that  way 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  341 

of  doing  your  hair  is.  Don't  imagine  that  I  would 
commit  such  a  solecism  as  to  dress  you  frivolously. 
Look;  will  you  put  this  on  at  once, — to  please  me?" 

She  had  drawn  the  delicate  thing,  all  falls  and 
plaitings  of  palest  blue,  from  a  closet,  and,  shaking 
it  out,  looked  up  with  quite  serious  eyes  of  suppli 
cation.  It  was  impossible  not  to  yield.  Laughing, 
frightened,  charmed,  Mary  allowed  Mrs.  Upton  to 
dress  her,  and  then  surveyed  herself  in  the  long 
mirror  with  astonishment.  She  could  n't  but  own 
that  it  was  herself,  though  such  a  transfigured  self. 
She  did  n't  feel  out  of  place,  though  she  felt  new 
and  strange. 

"Now,  Mary,  go  down  to  them  and  see  to  it  that 
they  all  do  as  I  say,"  Valerie  insisted.  "Imogen  is 
to  take  Sir  Basil  to  the  club ; — Miss  Bocock  is  to  gar 
den  with  me — tell  her  particularly  that  I  count  upon 
her.  Jack  is  to  take  you  for  a  drive.  And,  Mary," 
she  put  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  girl's 
shoulder,  grave  for  all  her  recovered  lightness; — 
you  are  not  to  talk  of  sad  things  to  Jack.  You  must 
help  me  about  Jack.  You  must  cheer  him;— make 
him  forget.  You  must  talk  of  all  the  things  you 
used  to  talk  of  before — before  either  I  or  Imogen 
came." 

They  were  all  on  the  veranda  when  Mary  went 
down ;  all,  that  is,  but  Rose  and  Eddy.  Sir  Basil 
and  Miss  Bocock  were  .deep  in  letters.  Imogen, 
seated  on  a  step,  the  sunlight  playing  over  her  flut 
tering  black,  endured— it  was  evident  that  enjoy 
ment  made  no  part  of  her  feeling— a  vivid  and  em 
phatic  account  from  Jack  of  some  recent  political 


342  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

occurrence.  He  was  even  reading,  here  and  there, 
bits  from  the  newspaper  he  held,  and  Mary  fancied 
that  there  was  an  unnatural  excitement  in  his  voice, 
an  unusual  eagerness  in  his  eye,  with  neither  of 
which  had  he  in  the  least  infected  Imogen. 

On  seeing  Mary  appear  he  dropped  the  newspaper 
and  joined  her  in  the  hall,  drawing  her  from  there 
into  the  little  library.  ' '  Well  ?— Well  ?—  "  he  ques 
tioned  keenly. 

He  had  no  eyes  for  her  transformation,  Mary 
noted  that,  although  Imogen,  in  the  instant  of  her 
appearance,  had  fixed  grave  and  astonished  eyes 
upon  her.  She  repeated  her  message. 

"Well,  do  you  know,"  said  Jack,  "we  can't  obey 
her.  I  'm  so  sorry; — I  should  have  liked  the  drive 
with  you,  Mary,  of  all  things ;  but  it  turns  out  that 
I  can't  take  anybody  this  morning.  I  Ve  some  let 
ters,  just  come,  that  must  be  answered  by  return. 
But,  Mary,  see  here,"  his  voice  dropped  and  his 
keenness  became  more  acute;— "help  me  about  it. 
See  that  she  goes.  She  needs  it." 

"Needs  it?" 

' '  Don 't  you  see  that  she  's  worn  out  ? ' ' 

"Jack,  only  this  morning,  I  've  begun  to  suspect 
it;— what  is  the  matter?" 

"Everything.  Everything  is  the  matter.  So, 
she  must  n't  be  allowed  to  take  all  the  drudgery  on 
her  hands.  Miss  Bocock  may  go  to  the  club  with 
Imogen;  she  's  just  ready  to  go,  she  wants  to  go;— 
and  Mrs.  Upton  must  have  the  drive  with  Sir  Basil. 
He  'd  far  rather  drive  with  her  than  walk  with  Imo* 
gen,"  said  Jack  brazenly. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  343 

"I  suppose  so,  they  are  such  great  friends; — 
only; — drudgery?— She  likes  Miss  Bocock.  She 
likes  gardening,"— Mary's  breath  was  almost  taken 
away  by  his  te»se  decisiveness. 

"She  likes  Sir  Basil  better";  Jack  said  it  in  the 
freest  manner,  a  manner  that  left  untouched  any 
deeper  knowledge  that  they  might  both  be  in  pos 
session  of.  ' '  Imogen  likes  him  better,  too.  It  's  for 
that,  so  that  Imogen  may  have  the  best  of  it,  that 
she  's  taking  Miss  Bocock  off  Imogen's  hands;— you 
see,  I  see  that  you  do.  So,  you  just  stay  here  and 
keep  still  about  your  counter-demands,  while  I  man 
age  it." 

"But  Jack,— you  bewilder  me!— I  ought  to  give 
my  message.  I  hate  managing." 

"I  '11  see  that  your  message  is  given. ' ' 

"But  how  can  you?— Jack— what  are  you  plan 
ning?" 

He  was  going  and,  with  almost  an  impatience  of 
her  Puritan  scruples,  he  paused  at  the  door  to  re 
ply  :— "Don't  bother.  I  'm  all  right.  I  won't  man 
age  it.  I  '11  simply  have  it  so." 

Half  an  hour  later  Valerie  came  down-stairs  wear 
ing  her  white  hat  with  its  black  ribbons  and  draw 
ing  on  her  gardening  gloves.  And  in  the  large, 
cool  hall,  holding  his  serviceable  letters,  Jack 
awaited  her. 

"I  hope  you  won't  mind,"  he  announced,  but  in 
the  easiest  tones;  "we  can't  obey  you  this  morning. 
Miss  Bocock 's  gone  off  to  the  club  with  Imogen,  and 
Sir  Basil  is  going  to  take  you  for  a  drive." 

Valerie,  standing  on  the  last  step  of  the  stair,  a 


344  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

little  above  him,  paused  in  the  act  of  adjusting  her 
glove,  to  stare  at  him.  Easy  as  his  tone  was  he 
could  n't  hide  from  her  that  he  wore  a  mask. 

"Was  Mary  too  late  to  give  my  message?" 

"Yes;— that  is,  no,  not  exactly;  but  the  club  had 
been  arranged  and  Miss  Bocock  was  eager  about  it 
and  knew  you  would  n't  mind,  especially  as  Sir 
Basil  set  his  heart  on  the  drive  with  you,  when  he 
heard  that  I  could  n't  go." 

"That  you  could  n't  go?— but  you  sent  Mary  to 
ask  me." 

"I  had  to  waive  my  claim,— I  Ve  just  had  these 
letters";  he  held  them  up.  "Very  important;  they 
must  be  answered  at  once ;  it  will  take  all  my  morn 
ing,  and,  of  course,  when  Sir  Basil  heard  that,  he 
jumped  at  his  chance." 

Valerie  was  still  on  the  step  above  him,  fully  il 
luminated,  and,  as,  with  that  careful  ease,  he  urged 
Sir  Basil's  eagerness  upon  her,  he  saw— with  what  a 
throb  of  the  heart,  for  her,  for  himself— that  her 
deep  flush  rose. 

Oh,  she  loved  him.  She  could  n't  conceal  it,  not 
from  the  eyes  that  watched  her  now.  And  was  she 
glad  of  an  unasked-for  help,  or  did  her  pride  sus 
pect  help  and  resent  it?  Above  all  did  she  know 
how  in  need  of  help  she  was? 

He  had  n  't  been  able  to  prevent  his  eyes  from  turn 
ing  from  the  blush ;  they  avowed,  he  feared,  the  con 
sciousness  that  he  would  hide ;  but,  after  a  little  mo 
ment,  in  the  same  voice  of  determined,  though  cau 
tious  penetration,  Valerie  questioned:  "Is  Imogen 
just  gone?" 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  345 

"She  has  been  gone  these  fifteen  minutes,"  said 
Jack,  striving  to  conceal  triumph. 

"And  Mary?" 

"Mary?" 

"Yes;  where  is  Mary?  Is  she  left  out  of  all  your 
combinations  ? ' ' 

She  did  probe,  then,  though  her  voice  was  so  mild, 
the  voice,  only,  of  the  slightly  severe,  slightly  dis 
pleased  hostess  who  finds  her  looms  entangled. 

"Mary  always  has  a  lot  to  do." 

"Sir  Basil  shall  take  Mary,"  said  Valerie  cheer 
fully,  as  though  she  picked  up  the  thread  and  found 
a  way  out  of  the  silly  chaos  of  his  making. 

And  at  this  crisis,  this  check  from  the  goddess 
who  would  n't  be  served,  Jack's  new  skill  rose  to  an 
almost  sinister  height.  Without  a  flaw  in  their  ap 
parent  candor,  his  eyes  met  hers  while  he  said:— 
"Please  don't  upset  my  little  personal  combination. 
It  's  very  selfish  of  me,  I  know;— but  I  wanted  to 
keep  Mary  for  myself  this  morning.  I  've  seen  so  lit 
tle  of  her  of  late,  and  I  need  her  to  talk  over  my  let 
ters  with;  they  're  about  things  we  are  both  inter 
ested  in." 

Valerie  looked  fixedly  at  him  while  he  made  this 
statement,  and  he  could  n't  tell  what  her  look  meant. 
But,  evidently,  she  yielded  to  his  counter-stratagem, 
feeling  it,  no  doubt,  unavoidable,  for  the  buggy  just 
then  drew  up  before  the  door,  and  the  figure  of  Sir 
Basil  appeared  above. 

' '  I  am  in  luck ! ' '  said  Sir  Basil.  Excitement  as 
well  as  eagerness  was  visible  in  him.  Valerie  did 
not  look  up  at  him,  though  she  smiled  vaguely,  com- 


346  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

ing  down  from  her  step  and  selecting  a  parasol  on 
her  way  to  the  door.  Jack  was  beside  her,  and  he 
saw  that  the  flush  still  stayed.  He  seemed  to  see, 
too,  that  she  was  excited  and  eager,  but,  more  than 
all,  that  she  was  frightened.  Yet  she  kept,  for  him, 
her  quiet  voice. 

Before  Sir  Basil  joined  them  she  had  time  to 
say:— "You  are  rather  mysterious,  Jack.  If  you 
have  deep-laid  plans,  I  would  rather  you  paid  me 
the  compliment  of  showing  me  the  deepest  one  at 
once.  I  am  not  being  nasty  to  you,"  she  smiled 
faintly.  ' '  Find  Mary  at  once,  you  must  have  wasted 
a  lot  of  time  already  in  getting  to  those  letters. ' ' 

Jack  stood  in  the  doorway  while  they  drove  off. 
Valerie,  though  now  very  pale,  in  the  shadow  of  her 
hat,  showed  all  her  gay  tranquillity,  and  she  was 
very  lovely.  Sir  Basil  must  see  that.  He  must 
see  that,  and  all  the  other  things,  that,  perhaps,  he 
had  forgotten  for  a  foolish  moment. 

Jack  felt  himself,  this  morning,  in  a  category 
where  he  had  never  thought  it  possible  that  he  should 
find  himself.  It  was  difficult  to  avoid  the  convic 
tion  that  he  had,  simply,  lied  two  or  three  times  in 
order  to  send  Mrs.  Upton  and  Sir  Basil  off  together 
in  their  long,  swaying,  sunny  solitude.  Jack  had 
never  imagined  it  possible  that  he  should  lie.  But. 
observing,  as  he  was  forced  to,  the  blot  on  his  neat, 
clean  conscience,  he  found  himself  considering  it 
without  a  qualm.  His  only  qualm  was  for  its  suc 
cess.  The  drive  would  justify  him.  He  almost 
swore  it  to  himself,  as  Valerie's  parasol  disappeared 
among  the  trees.  The  drive  would  justify  him,  and 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  347 

reinstate  Sir  Basil.      Unless  Sir  Basil  were  a  fool, 
what  he  had  done  was  well  done. 

Yet,  when  they  had  disappeared,  it  was  with  the 
saddest  drop  to  anxious,  to  gnawing  uncertainty, 
that  Jack  turned  back  into  the  house.  An  echo  of  the 
fear  that  he  had  felt  in  Valerie  seemed  to  float  back 
to  him.  It  was  as  if,  in  some  strange  way,  he  had 
handed  her  over  to  pain  rather  than  to  joy,  to  sacri 
fice  rather  than  to  attainment. 


XXVII 

ACK'S  morning  was  not  a  happy  one. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  have  told  so  many 
fibs,  or,  at  all  events,  to  have  invented 
so  many  opportune  truths,  and  it  was 
worse  to  have  to  go  on  inventing  more 
them   to    Mary,    now    that   his    dexterities    had 
linked  him  to  her. 

Mary  looked,  as  was  only  too  natural,  much  sur 
prised,  when  he  told  her  that  his  letters  required 
her  help.  She  looked  still  more  so  when  she  found 
how  inadequate  were  their  contents  to  account  for 
such  a  claim. 

Indeed  there  was,  apparently,  but  one  letter  upon1 
which  her  advice  could  be  of  the  least  significance, 
and  after  she  had  given  him  all  the  information  she 
had  to  give  in  regard  to  the  charity  for  which  it  ap 
pealed,  there  was  really  nothing  more  for  them  to  do. 
"But— the  letters  that  required  the  immediate 
answers?"  she  asked. 

Jack's  excited,  plausible  manner  had  dropped 
from  him.  Mary  felt  it  difficult  to  be  severe  when 
his  look  of  dejection  was  piercing  her  heart ;  still, 
she  felt  that  she  owed  it  to  him  as  well  as  to  herself, 
she  must  see  a  little  more  clearly  into  how  he  had 
" had  things  so." 

Ml 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  349 

He  replied,  his  eye  neither  braving  nor  evading 
hers,  that  he  had  already  answered  them ;  and  Mary, 
after  a  little  pause,  in  which  she  studied  her  friend's 
face,  said: — "I  don't  understand  you  this  morning, 
Jack." 

"I  'm  afraid  you  '11  understand  me  less  when  I 
make  you  a  confession.  I  did  n't  give  your  mes 
sage  this  morning,  Mary." 

"Did  n't  give  Mrs.  Upton's  message,  to  Miss  Bo- 
cock,  to  Sir  Basil  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  Jack,  but  with  more  mildness  and  sad 
ness  than  compunction; — "I  want  to  be  straight 
with  you,  at  all  events.  So  I  'd  rather  tell  you. 
All  I  did  was  to  say  to  Sir  Basil  that  I  found  I 
could  n't  take  Mrs.  Upton  for  the  drive  I  'd  prom 
ised,  so  that  if  he  wanted  to  take  my  place,  he  was 
welcome  to  the  buggy.  He  wanted  to,  of  course. 
That  went  without  saying." 

' '  Why,  Jack  Pennington ! ' ' 

"Miss  Bocock,  luckily,  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  veranda,  so  that  I  had  only  to  go  round  to  her 
afterward  and  tell  her  that  Mrs.  Upton  had  sug 
gested  their  gardening,  but  that  since  she  was  going 
to  drive  with  Sir  Basil  she  could  go  off  to  the  club, 
at  once,  too,  with  Imogen. ' ' 

"But,  Jack!— what  did  you  mean  by  it?"— Mary, 
quite  aghast,  stared  at  her  Machiavellian  friend. 

"Why,  that  Sir  Basil  should  take  her.  That  's 
all  I  meant  from  the  beginning,  when  I  proposed 
going  myself.  Do  forgive  me,  you  dear  old  brick. 
You  see,  I  'm  so  awfully  set  on  her  not  being  done 
out  of  thiugs." 


350  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Done  out  of  things?" 

"Oh,  little  things,  if  you  like,  young  things. 
She  's  young,  and  she  ought  to  have  them.  Say 
you  forgive  me." 

"Of  course,  Jack  dear,  I  forgive  you,  though  I 
don't  understand  you.  But  that  's  not  the  point. 
Everything  seems  so  queer,  so  twisted;  every  one 
seems  different.  And  to  find  you  not  straight  is 
worst  of  all." 

"I  promise  you,  it  's  my  last  sin,"  said  Jack. 

Mary,  though  shaking  her  bewildered  head,  had 
to  smile  a  little,  and,  the  smile  encouraging  him  to 
lightness,  he  remarked  on  her  changed  aspect. 

"So  do  forgive  and  forget.  I  had  to  confess, 
when  I  'd  not  been  true  to  you.  Really,  my  nature 
is  n't  warped.  What  an  extremely  becoming  dress 
that  is  Mary;— and  what  have  you  done  to  your 
hair?" 

"It   's  she,"  said  Mary,  flushing  with  pleasure. 

"Mrs.  Upton?" 

"Yes,  she  did  my  hair  and  gave  me  the  dress. 
She  was  so  sweet  and  dear." 

Jack  lightly  touched  a  plaited  ruffle  of  the  wide 
sleeve,  and  Mary  felt  that  he  had  never  less  thought 
of  her  than  when  he  so  touched  her  dress.  She  put 
aside  the  deep  little  pang  that  gave  her  to  say :  "It  's 
true,  Jack,  she  ought  to  have  young  things,  just 
because  they  are  going  from  her;  one  feels  that: 
She  ought  n't  to  be  standing  back,  and  giving  up 
things,  yet.  I  see  a  little  what  you  mean.  7s  n't 
it  pretty?"  Still,  with  an  absent  hand,  he  lightly 
touched,  here  and  there,  a  ruffle  of  her  sleeve.  "But 
it  's  like  her.  I  hardly  feel  myself  in  it." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  351 

"You  've  never  so  looked  yourself,"  said  Jack. 
"That  's  what  she  does,  brings  out  people's  real 
selves. ' ' 

Mrs.  Upton  and  Sir  Basil  did  not  come  Hack  to 
lunch,  and  Imogen's  face  was  somber  indeed  as  she 
faced  her  guests  at  the  table.  Jack,  vigilant  and 
pitiless,  guessed  at  the  turmoil  of  her  soul. 

She  asked  him,  with  an  icy  sweetness,  how  his  let 
ters  had  prospered.  "Did  you  get  them  all  off?" 

Jack  said  that  he  had,  and  Mary,  casting  a  waver 
ing  glance  at  him,  saw  that  if  he  intended  to  sin  no 
more,  he  showed,  at  all  events,  a  sinful  guilelessness 
of  demeanor.  She  herself  began  to  blush  so  help 
lessly  and  so  furiously  that  Imogen's  attention  was 
drawn  to  her.  Imogen,  also,  was  vigilant. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing,  Mary  dear?" 
she  asked. 

"I— oh"— poor  Mary  looked  the  sinful  one;— 
"I— helped  Jack  a  little." 

"Helped  Jack? — Oh,  yes,  he  had  heaps  of  letters, 
had  n  't  he  ?  What  were  they  all  about,  Mary  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  charities." 

"Charities?— What  charities?  How  many  chari 
ties?— I  'm  interested  in  that,  you  know — I  'm 
rather  hurt  that  you  did  n't  ask  my  advice,  too," 
and  Imogen  smiled  her  ominous  smile.  "What  were 
the  charities?" 

Mary,  crimson  to  the  brow,  her  eyes  on  her  plate, 
now  did  her  duty. 

"There  was  only  one." 

"One— and  that  of  such  consequence  that  Jack 
had  to  give  up  his  drive  because  of  it?— what  an  in 
teresting  letter." 


352  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

' '  There  were  other  letters,  of  course, ' '  Jack,  in  aid 
of  his  innocent  accomplice,  struck  in.  "None  that 
would  have  particularly  interested  you,  Imogen. 
I  only  needed  advice  about  the  one,  a  local  Boston 
affair." 

"There  were  others,  Mary,"  said  Imogen,  laugh 
ing  a  little.  "You  need  n't  look  so  guilty  on  Jack's 
account."  Mary  gave  her  a  wide,  startled  stare. 

"You  see,  Mary,"  said  Rose,  after  lunch  in  the 
drawing-room,  "saints  can  sting." 

"What  was  the  matter?"  Mary  murmured,  her 
head  still  seemed  to  buzz,  as  though  from  a  violent 
box  on  the  ear.  "I  never  heard  Imogen  speak  like 
that.  To  hurt  one!" 

"I  fancy  she  'd  been  getting  thwarted  in  some 
way,"  said  Rose  comfortably;  "saints  do  sting, 
then,  sometimes,  the  first  thing  that  happens  to  be 
at  hand.  How  Jack  and  she  hate  each  other!" 

Mary  went  away  to  her  room  and  cried. 

Meanwhile  Jack  wandered  about  in  the  woods  un 
til,  quite  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  saw  from  the  rus 
tic  bench,  where,  finally,  he  had  cast  himself,  the  re 
turning  buggy  climbing  up  through  the  lower  wood 
lands. 

He  felt  that  his  heart  throbbed  heavily  as  he 
watched  it,  just  catching  glimpses,  among  the  trees, 
of  the  white  bubble  of  Valerie's  parasol  slanting 
against  the  sun.  Yet  there  was  a  dullness  in  his  ex 
citement.  It  was  over,  at  all  events.  He  was  sure 
that  the  last  die  was  cast.  And  his  own  trivial  and 
somewhat  indecorous  part,  of  shifter  of  scenes  and 
puller  of  strings,  was,  he  felt  sure,  a  thing  put  by  for- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  353 

ever.  He  could  help  her  no  longer.  And  in  a  sort 
of  apathy,  he  sat  out  there  in  the  sunny  green, 
hardly  thinking,  hardly  wondering,  conscious  only 
of  a  hope  that  had  become  a  mere  physical  sense  of 
oppression  and  of  an  underlying  sadness  that  had 
become,  almost,  a  physical  sense  of  pain. 

He  had  just  consulted  his  watch  and,  seeing  it 
wanted  but  ten  minutes  to  tea-time,  had  got  up  and 
was  moving  away,  when  a  sudden  rustle  near  him, 
a  pause,  a  quick,  evasive  footstep,  warned  him  of 
some  presence  as  anxious  for  solitude  as  himself. 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  uncertain  as  to  his 
own  best  means  of  retreat,  but  his  stillness  misled, 
for,  in  another  moment,  Valerie  appeared  before 
him  from  among  the  branches  of  a  narrow  side  path. 

She  had  come  up  to  the  woods  directly;  he  saw 
that,  for  she  still  wore  her  hat ;  she  had  come  to  be 
alone  and  to  weep ;  and,  as  she  saw  Jack,  her  pale 
face  was  convulsed,  with  the  effort  to  control  her 
weeping,  into  a  strange  rigor  of  pain  and  confu 
sion. 

"Oh"— he  stammered.  "Forgive  me.  I  did  n't 
know  you  were  here. ' '  He  was  turning  to  flee,  as  if 
from  a  sacrilege,  when  she  recalled  him. 

"Don't— without  me.  I  must  go  back,  too,"  she 
said. 

She  stepped  on  to  the  broader  path  and  joined  him, 
and  he  guessed  that  she  tested,  on  him,  her  power  to 
face  the  others.  But,  after  they  had  gone  a  few 
steps  together,  she  stopped  suddenly  and  put  her 
hands  before  her  face,  standing  quite  still. 

And  Jack  understood  that  she  was  helpless  and 

23 


354  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

that  he  must  say  nothing.  She  stood  so  for  a  long 
moment,  not  trusting  herself  to  move  or  speak. 
Then,  uncovering  her  face,  she  showed  him  strange 
eyes  from  which  the  tears  had  been  crushed  back. 

"And— I  can  do  nothing?—  '  he  said  at  last,  on 
the  lowest  breath,  as  they  walked  on. 

"Nothing,  dear  Jack." 

"When  you  are  suffering  like  that!" 

"I  have  no  right  to  such  suffering.  I  must  hid* 
it.  Help  me  to  hide  it,  Jack.  Do  I  look  fairly  de 
cent?"  She  turned  her  face  to  him,  with,  he 
thought,  the  most  valorous  smile  he  had  ever  seen. 

Only  a  thin  screen  of  leaves  was  between  them  and 
the  open. 

"You  look— beautiful, "  said  Jack.  She  smi'ed 
on,  as  though  that  satisfied  her,  and  he  added,  ' '  Can 
I  know  nothing?— See  nothing?" 

"I  think  already,"  said  Valerie,  "that  you  see 
more  than  I  ever  meant  any  one  to  see." 

"I?— I  see  nothing,  now,"  he  almost  moaned. 

"You  shall.     I  '11  talk  to  you  later." 

"You  will?     If  only  you  knew  how  I  cared!" 

"I  do,  dear  Jack." 

"Not  how  much,  not  how  much.  You  can't  know 
that.  It  almost  gives  me  my  right,  you  know,  to 
see.  When  will  you  talk  to  me  ? " 

"Some  time  to-night,  when  we  can  have  a  quiet 
moment.  I  '11  tell  you  about  the  things  that  have 
happened— nothing  to  make  you  sad,  I  hope.  And 
I  '11  ask  you  some  questions,  too,  Jack,  about  your 
very  odd  behavior!" 

Really  she  was  wonderful ;  it  was  almost  her  own 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  355 

gaiety,  flickering  like  pale  sunlight  upon  her  face, 
that  she  had  regained,  and,  as  they  went  together 
over  the  lawn  to  where  the  tea-table  was  laid  in 
the  shade,  he  saw  that  she  could  face  them  all.  No 
one  would  know.  And  her  last  words  had  given 
him  heart,  had  lifted,  a  little,  the  heavy  weight  of 
foreboding.  Perhaps,  perhaps,  her  grief  was  n't 
for  herself.  "Oh,  but  I  can't  be  candid  till  you 
are,"  he  said,  the  new  hope  shining  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will  be,"  she  returned.  "You 
won't  ask  me  to  be  candid.  You  '11  give  and  not 
ask  to  get  back.  I  know  you,  Jack." 

No  one  could  guess;  Sir  Basil  least  of  all.  That 
was  apparent  to  Jack  as  he  watched  them  all  sitting 
at  tea  under  the  apple-trees.  Sir  Basil  had  never 
looked  so  radiant,  so  innocent  of  any  connection  with 
suffering.  He  exclaimed  over  the  beauties  of  their 
long  drive.  They  had  crossed  hill  and  dale;  they 
had  lost  their  way ;  they  had  had  lunch  at  a  village 
hotel,  an  amusing  lunch,  ending  with  ice-cream  and 
pie,  and,  from  the  undiminished  reflection  of  his 
contentment  on  Valerie's  features,  Jack  knew  that 
any  faintest  hint  of  the  pale,  stricken  anguish  of  the 
woodlands  had  never  for  an  instant  hovered  during 
the  drive.  This  was  the  face  that  Sir  Basil  had 
seen  for  all  the  happy,  sunny,  picnic  day,  this  face  of 
gay  tranquillity. 

Sir  Basil  and  Mrs.  Upton,  indeed,  expressed  what 
gaiety  there  was  among  the  group.  Mary,  in  her 
blue  lawn,  looked  very  dreary.  Rose  and  Eddy 
were  ill-tempered,  their  day,  plainly,  having  ended 
in  a  quarrel.  As  for  Imogen,  Jack  had  felt  her 


35G  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

heavy  eye  rest  upon  him  and  her  mother  as  they 
came  together  over  the  lawn,  and  felt  it  rest  upon 
her  mother  and  Sir  Basil  steadily  and  somberly, 
while  they  sat  about  the  tea-table.  The  long  drive, 
Sir  Basil's  radiance,  her  mother's  serenity,  how 
must  they  look  to  Imogen?  Jack  could  conjecture, 
though  knowing,  for  his  own  bitter  mystification, 
that  what  they  looked  like  was  perhaps  not  what 
they  meant.  Imogen  must  be  truly  at  bay,  and  he 
felt  a  cruel  satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  her  hidden, 
her  gnawing  anxiety.  He  was  aware  of  every  ring 
of  falsity  in  her  placid  voice  and  of  every  flash  of 
fierceness  under  the  steeled  calmness  of  her  eye.  He 
noticed,  too,  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  that,  whatever 
Imogen's  desperation,  she  made  no  effort  to  see  Sir 
Basil  alone.  Almost  ostentatiously  she  went  away 
to  her  room  after  tea,  saying  that  she  had  had  bad 
news  of  an  invalid  protege  and  must  write  to  her. 
She  paused,  as  she  went,  to  lean  over  Mary,  a  ca 
ressing  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  to  speak  to  her 
in  a  low  tone.  Mary  grew  very  red,  stammered, 
and  said  nothing. 

"Miss  Upton  overworks,  I  think,"  observed  Miss 
Bocock.  "I  've  thought  that  she  seemed  over 
strained  all  day." 

Mary  had  risen  too,  and  as  she  wandered  away 
into  the  flower  garden,  Jack  followed  her. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "has  Imogen  been  hurting 
you  again?" 

"No,  Jack,  oh  DO  ;— I  'm  sure  she  does  n't  mean  to 
hurt." 

"What  did  she  say  to  you  just  now?" 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  357 

"Well,  Jack,  you  did  bring  it  upon  yourself,  and 
upon  me"- 

"What  was  it?" 

' '  She  said  that  she  could  n  't  bear  to  see  her  white 
flower — that  's  I,  you  know," — Mary  blushed  even 
deeper  in  repeating  the  metaphor — "used  for  un 
worthy  ends.  She  meant,  of  course,  I  see  that,— 
she  meant  that  what  she  said  at  lunch  was  for  you 
and  not  for  me.  I  'm  sure  that  Imogen  means  to  be 
kind— always." 

"I  believe  she  does." 

"  I  'm  glad  that  you  feel  that,  too,  Jack.  It  is  so 
horrible  to  see  oneself  as — oh,  really  disloyal  some 
times.  ' ' 

"You  need  never  feel  that,  Mary." 

"Oh,  but  I  do.  And  now,  when  everything, 
every  one,  seems  turning  against  Imogen !  And  she 
has  seemed  different;— yet  for  two  years  she  has 
been  a  revelation  of  everything  noble  to  me." 

"You  only  saw  her  in  noble  circumstances." 

"Oh,  Jack,"  Mary's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she 
looked  at  him  now,  "that  's  the  worst  of  all;  that 
you  have  come  to  speak  of  her  like  that. ' ' 


XXVIII 

YEN  Valerie  could  n't  dispel  the  en 
compassing  cloud  of  gloom  at  dinner. 
One  could  n't  do  much  in  such  a  fog 
but  drift  with  it.  And  Jack  saw  that 
she  was  fit  for  no  more  decisive  action. 

Imogen,  pale,  and  almost  altogether  silent,  said 
that  she  was  very  tired,  and  went  up-stairs  early. 
Rose  and  Eddy,  in  a  shaded  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room,  engaged  in  a  long  altercation.  The  others 
talked,  in  desultory  fashion,  till  bedtime.  No  one 
seemed  fit  for  more  than  drifting. 

It  was  hardly  eleven  when  Jack  was  left  alone 
with  Mrs.  Upton. 

"You  are  tired,  too,"  he  said  to  her;  "dreadfully 
tired.  I  must  n 't  ask  for  our  talk. " 

"I  should  like  a  little  stroll  in  the  moonlight." 
Valerie,  at  the  open  window,  was  looking  out.  "In 
a  night  or  two  it  will  be  too  late  for  us  to  see.  We  '11 
have  our  walk  and  our  talk,  Jack." 

She  rang  for  her  white  chnddah,  told  the  maid  to 
put  out  the  lamps,  and  that  she  and  Mr.  Pennington 
would  shut  the  house  when  they  came  in.  From  the 
darkened  house  they  stepped  into  the  warm,  pale 
night.  They  went  in  silence  over  the  lawn  and, 
with  no  sense  of  choice,  took  the  mossy  path  that  led 

358 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  359 

to  the  rustic  bench  where  they  had  met  that  after 
noon. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  lost  in  the  obscurity  of 
the  woods  that  Valerie  said,  very  quietly :  ' '  Do  you 
remember  our  talk,  Jack,  on  that  evening  in  New 
York,  after  the  tableaux  ? ' ' 

He  had  followed  along  the  path  just  behind  her; 
but  now  he  came  to  her  side  so  that  he  could  see  her 
shadowy  face.  "Yes; — the  evening  in  which  we 
saw  that  Imogen  and  Sir  Basil  were  going  to  be 
friends. ' ' 

"And  the  evening,"  said  Valerie,  "when  you 
showed  me  plainly,  at  last,  that  because  I  seemed 
gold  to  you,  Imogen 's  blue  had  turned  to  green. ' ' 

"Yes; — I  remember." 

"It  has  faded  further  and  further  away,  her  blue, 
has  n't  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  confessed. 

"So  that  you  are  hardly  friends,  Jack?" 

He  paused  foi  a  moment,  and  then  completed  his 
confession: — "We  are  not  friends." 

Valerie  stood  still,  breathing  as  if  with  a  little  dif 
ficulty  after  the  gradual  ascent.  The  tall  trees 
about  them  were  dark  and  full  of  mystery  on  the 
pale  mysterious  sky.  Through  the  branches  they 
could  see  the  glint  of  the  moon's  diminished  disk. 

' '  That  is  terrible,  you  know, ' '  said  Valerie,  after 
they  had  stood  in  silence  for  some  moments. 

"I  know  it." 

"For  both  of  you." 

"Worse  for  me,  because  I  cared  more,  really  cared 
more. ' ' 


360  A  FOUNTAIN  SEA1TED 

"No,  worse  for  her,  for  it  is  you  who  have  judged 
and  rejected  her." 

"She  thinks  that  it  is  she  who  has  judged  and  re 
jected  me." 

' '  She  tries  to  think  it ;  she  does  not  always  suc 
ceed.  It  has  been  bitter,  it  has  been  cruel  for  her." 

"Oh,  yes,  bitter  and  cruel,"  he  assented. 

"Don't  try  to  minimize  her  pain,  Jack." 

"You  feel  that  I  can't  care,  much?" 

"It  is  horrible  for  me  to  feel  it.  Think  of  her 
when  I  came,  so  secure,  so  calm,  so  surrounded  by 
love  and  appreciation.  And  now"  -  Valerie 
walked  on,  as  if  urged  to  motion  by  the  controlled 
force  of  her  own  insistence.  Was  it  an  appeal  to 
him  that  Imogen,  dispossessed  of  the  new  love,  might 
find  again  the  old  love  opening  to  her?  He  clung 
to  the  hope,  though  with  a  sickening  suspicion  of 
its  folly. 

"By  my  coming,  I  have  robbed  her  of  every 
thing,"  Valerie  was  saying,  walking  swiftly  up  the 
path  and  breathing  as  if  with  that  slight  difficulty— 
the  sound  of  her  breaths  affected  him  with  an  almost 
intolerable  sense  of  expectancy.  "She  is  n't  se 
cure;— she  is  n't  calm.  She  is  warped;— her  faiths 
are  warped.  Her  friends  are  changed  to  her.  She 
has  lost  you.  It  's  as  if  I  had  shattered  her  life." 

"Everything  that  was  n't  real  you  have  shat 
tered.  ' ' 

The  rustic  bench  was  reached  and  they  paused 
there,  though  with  no  eyes  for  the  shaft  of  mystic 
distance  that  opened  before  them.  Jack's  eyes  were 
on  her  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  rising  insistence  in 
himself  that  matched  and  opposed  her  own. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  361 

"But  you  must  be  sorry  for  her  pain,"  said  Va 
lerie,  and  now,  with  eyes  almost  stern  in  their  de 
mand,  she  gazed  at  him; — "you  must  be  sorry  that 
she  has  had  to  lose  so  much.  And  you  would  be 
glad,  would  you  not,  to  think  that  real  things,  a  new 
life,  were  to  come  to  her  ? ' ' 

He  understood;  even  before  the  words,  his  fear, 
his  presage,  leaped  forward  to  this  crashing  together 
of  all  his  hopes.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  flame 
passed  through  him,  shriveling  in  its  ardent  wrath 
all  trite  reticences  and  decorums. 

' '  No ;  no,  I  should  not  be  glad, ' '  he  answered. 
His  voice  was  violent ;  the  eyes  he  fixed  on  her  were 
violent.  His  words  struck  Imogen  out  of  his  life 
for  ever. 

"Why  are  you  so  cruel?"  she  faltered. 

"I  am  cruel  for  you.  I  know  what  you  want  to 
do.  You  are  going  to  give  her  your  life." 

Quick  as  a  flash  she  answered— it  was  like  a  rapier 
parrying  his  stroke: — "Give? — what  have  I  to  do 
with  it,  if  it  comes  to  her  ? ' ' 

' '  Everything !     Everything ! "  he  cried. 

"Nothing.     You  are  mistaken." 

"Ah.— you  could  keep  it,  you  could  keep  it — if 
you  tried."  And  now  his  eyes  pleaded— pleaded 
with  her,  for  her  own  life's  sake,  to  keep  what  was 
hers.  "You  have  only  to  show  her  to  him,  as  you 
did  to  me." 

"You  think— I  could  do  that!— to  my  child!"— 
Through  the  darkness  her  white  face  looked  a  wild 
reproach  at  him. 

He  seized  her  hands:— "It  's  to  do  her  no  wrong! 
—It  's  only  to  be  true,  consciously,  to  him,  as  you 


362  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

were  true,  unconsciously,  to  me.  It  's  only,  not  to 
let  her  rob  you— not  to  let  her  rob  him." 

"Jack,"  she  breathed  heavily,  "these  are  things 
that  cannot  be  said. ' ' 

"They  must — they  must — now,  between  us.  I 
have  my  right.  I  've  cared  enough— to  do  anything, 
so  that  she  'should  not  rob  you ! ' '  Jack  groaned. 

"She  has  not  robbed  me.  It  left  me;— it  went  to 
her ; — I  saw  it  all.  Even  if  I  had  been  base  enough, 
even  if  I  had  tried  to  keep  it  by  showing  her  to 
him — as  you  say  so  horribly, — even  then  I  should 
not  have  kept  it.  He  would  not  have  seen.  Don't 
you  understand;— he  is  not  that  sort  of  man.  She 
will  always  be  blue  to  him,  and  I  will  always  be 
gold — though  perhaps,  now,  a  little  tarnished. 
That's  what  is  so  beautiful  in  him— and  so  stupid. 
He  does  n  't  see  colors,  as  you  and  I  do,  Jack.  That  's 
what  makes  me  sure  that  this  is  the  happiest  of  for 
tunes  for  them  both." 

He  had  held  her  hands,  gazing  at  her  downcast 
face,  its  strength  speaking  from  the  shadow,  its  pain 
hidden  from  him,  and  now,  before  her  resolution  and 
her  gentleness,  he  bent  his  head  upon  the  hands  he 
held.  "Oh,  but  you,  you,  you!— It  's  you  whose 
life  is  shattered!"  broke  from  him  with  a  sob. 

For  a  long  while  she  stood  silent  above  him,  her 
hands  enfolding  his,  as  though  she  comforted  his 
grief.  He  found  himself  at  length  kissing  the  gen 
tle  hands,  with  tears,  and  then,  caressing  his  bent 
head  with  a  light  touch,  she  said:  "Don't  you  see 
that  the  time  has  come  for  me  to  accept  shatterings 
as  in  the  order  of  things,  dear  Jack?— My  mistake 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  363 

has  been  to  believe  that  life  can  begin  over  again. 
It  can't.  One  uses  it  up— merely  by  waiting.  I've 
been  an  incurable  girl  till  now;— and  now,  I  've 
crashed  from  girlhood  to  middle-age  in  a  week ! 
It  's  been  a  crash,  of  course;  the  sort  of  crash  one 
never  mends  of ;  but  after  to-day,  after  you  sent  me 
off  with  him,  Jack,  and  I  allowed  myself,  in  spite  of 
all  my  dread,  my  pride,  my  relinquishment,  just  one 
flicker  of  girlish  hope,— after  all  this,  I  think  that 
I  must  put  on  caps  to  show  that  I  am  really  old  at 
last." 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  Her  face 
was  lovely,  with  the  silver  disk  of  the  moon  above  it 
and,  about  it,  the  mystery  and  sadness  of  the  tran 
quil  woods.  So  lovely,  so  young,  with  almost  the 
trembling  touch  of  a  tender  mockery,  like  the  tremb 
ling  of  moonlit  water,  upon  it.  And  all  that  he 
found  to  say  at  last  was: — "What  a  fool  he  is." 

She  really  smiled  then,  though  tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes  with  her  comprehension  of  all  that  the  help 
less,  boy'sh  words  struggled  to  subdue. 

"Thanks  for  that,  dear  Jack, — and  for  all  the 
other  mistakes,"  she  said. 

There  seemed  nothing  more  to  say,  no  questions  to 
ask,  or  to  answer.  He  must  accept  from  her  that 
her  plight  was  irrevocable.  It  was  as  if  he  had  seen 
a  great  stone  rolled  over  the  quivering,  springing, 
shining  fountain,  sealing  it,  stilling  it  for  ever. 
And,  for  his  part,  her  word  covered  all.  His  "mis 
takes"  needed  no  further  revealing. 

They  had  turned  and,  in  silence,  were  moving 
down  the  path  again,  when  they  heard,  suddenly, 


364  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

the  sound  of  light,  swift  footsteps  approaching  them. 
They  paused,  exchanging  a  glance  of  wonder;  and 
Jack  thought  that  he  saw  fear  in  Valerie's  eyes. 
The  day,  already,  had  held  overmuch  of  endurance 
for  her,  and  it  was  not  yet  ended.  In  another  mo 
ment,  tall  and  illumined,  Imogen  appeared  before 
them  in  the  path. 

Jack  knew,  in  thinking  it  over  afterward,  that 
Imogen  at  her  most  baleful  had  been  Imogen  at  her 
most  beautiful.  She  had  looked,  as  she  emerged 
from  shadow  into  light,  like  a  virgin  saint  bent  on 
some  wild  errand  through  the  night,  an  errand 
brought  to  a  proud  pause,  in  which  was  no  fear  and 
no  hesitancy,  as  her  path  was  crossed  by  the  spirits 
of  an  evil  world.  That  was  really  just  what  she 
looked  like,  standing  there  before  them,  bathed  in 
light,  her  eyes  pr'ofound  and  stern,  her  hair  crowning 
her  with  a  glory  of  transmuted  gold,  her  head  up 
lifted  with  a  high,  unfaltering  purpose.  That  the 
shock  of  finding  them  there  before  her  was  great, 
one  saw  at  once ;  and  one  could  gage  the  strength  of 
her  purpose  from  her  instantaneous  surmounting  of 
the  shock. 

And  it  was  strange,  in  looking  back,  to  remember 
how  the  time  of  colorless  light  and  colorless 
shadow  had  seemed  to  divest  them  all  of  daily  con 
ventions  and  daily  seemings.  They  might  have  been 
three  disembodied  souls  met  there  in  the  moon 
lit  woods  and  speaking  the  direct,  unimpeded  lan 
guage  of  souls,  for  whom  all  concealments  are  use 
less. 

"Oh— it  is  you,"  was  what  Imogen  said;  much 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  365 

as  the  virgin  saint  might  have  greeted  the  familiar 
demons  who  opposed  her  quest.  You,  meant  both 
of  them.  She  put  them  together  into  one  category 
of  evil,  saw  them  as  one  in  their  enmity  to  her  and 
to  good.  And  she  seemed  to  accept  them  as  very 
much  what  a  saint  might  expect  to  find  on  such  a 
nocturnal  errand. 

Involuntarily  Valerie  had  fallen  back,  and  she  had 
put  her  hand  on  Jack's  shoulder  in  confusion  more 
than  in  fear.  Yet,  feeling  a  menace  in  the  white, 
shining  presence,  her  voice  faltered  as  she  asked: 
"Imogen,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

And  it  was  at  this  point  that  Imogen  reached, 
really,  her  own  culmination.  Whatever  shame, 
whatever  hesitation,  whatever  impulsion  to  deceive 
when  deception  was  so  easy,  she  may  have  felt;  to 
lie,  when  a  lie  would  be  so  easily  convincing,  she  re 
jected  and  triumphed  over.  Jack  knew  from  her 
uplifted  look  that  the  moment  would  count  with  her 
always  as  one  of  her  great  ones,  one  of  the  moments 
in  which— as  she  had  used  to  say  to  him  sometimes 
in  the  Jays  that  were  gone  forever — one  knew  that 
one  had  "beat  down  Satan  under  one's  feet." 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that,"  she  said, 
"but  I  choose  to  answer  you.  I  have  come  here  to 
meet  Sir  Basil." 

"Meet  him?"  It  was  in  pure  bewilderment  that 
Valerie  questioned,  helplessly,  without  reproach. 

"Meet  him.     Yes.     What  have  you  to  say  to  it ?" 

"But  why  meet  him?— Why  now?"  The  wonder 
on  Valerie's  face  had  broken  to  almost  merriment. 
"Did  he.  ask  you  to?— Really,  really,  he  ought  n't  to. 


366  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Really,  my  child,  I  can't  have  you  meeting  Sir  Basil 
in  the  woods  at  midnight. ' ' 

"You  can't  have  me  meeting  him  in  the  woods  at 
midnight?"  Imogen  repeated,  an  ominous  cadence, 
holding  her  head  high  and  taking  long  breaths. 
"You  say  that,  dare  say  it,  when  you  well  know 
that  I  can  meet  him  nowhere  else  and  in  no  other 
way.  It  was  7  who  asked  him  to  meet  me  here  and 
it  is  here,  confronted  with  you,  if  you  so  choose ;  it  is 
here,  before  you  and  under  God's  stars,  that  I  shall 
know  the  truth  from  him.  I  am  not  ashamed ;  I 
am  proud  to  say  it;— I  love  him.  And  though  you 
scheme,  and  stoop  and  strive  to  take  him  from  me — 
you,  with  Jack  to  help  you— Jack  to  lie  for  you— as 
he  did  this  morning, — I  know,  I  know  in  my  heart 
and  soul  that  he  loves  me,  that  he  is  mine." 

"Jack!— Jack!"  Valerie  cried.  She  caught  him 
back,  for  he  started  forward  to  seize,  to  gag  her 
daughter ;  ' '  Jack— remember,  remember !— She 
does  n  't  understand ! ' ' 

' '  Oh,  he  may  strike  me  if  he  wills. ' '  Imogen  had 
stood  quite  still,  not  flinching. 

"I  don't  want  to  strike  you— you— you  idiot!"— 
Jack  was  gasping.  "I  want  to  force  you  to  your 
knees,  before  your  mother— who  loves  you— as  no 
one  else  who  knows  you  will  ever  love  you ! ' '  And, 
helplessly,  his  old  words,  so  trite,  so  inadequate, 
came  back  to  him.  "You  self-centered,  you  self- 
righteous,  you  cold-hearted  girl ! ' ' 

Valerie  still  held  his  arm  with  both  hands,  leaning 
upon  him. 

"Imogen."    she    said,    speaking    quickly,    "you 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  367 

need  n't  meet  Sir  Basil  in  this  way;— there  is  noth 
ing  to  prevent  you  from  seeing  him  where  and  when 
you  will.  You  are  right  in  believing  that  he  loves 
you.  He  asked  me  this  morning  for  your  hand. 
And  I  gave  him  my  consent. ' ' 

From  a  virgin  saint  Imogen,  as  if  with  the  wave 
of  a  wand,  saw  herself  turned  into  a  rather  foolish 
genie,  so  transformed  and  then,  ever  so  swiftly,  run 
into  a  bottle; — it  was  surely  the  graceful  seal  firmly 
affixed  thereto  when  she  heard  these  words  of  con 
formity  to  the  traditions  of  dignified  betrothal.  And 
for  once  in  her  life,  so  bottled  and  so  sealed,  she 
looked,  as  if  through  the  magic  crystal  of  her 
mother's  words,  absolutely,  helplessly  foolish.  It 
is  difficult  for  a  genie  in  a  bottle  to  look  contrite  or 
stricken  with  anything  deeper  than  astonishment ;  nor 
is  it  practicable  in  such  a  situation  to  fall  upon  one's 
knees, — if  a  genie  were  to  feel  such  an  impulse  of 
self-abasement.  It  was  perhaps  a  comfort  to  all 
concerned,  including  a  new-comer,  that  Imogen 
should  be  reduced  to  the  silence  of  sheer  stupefac 
tion;  und  as  Sir  Basil  appeared  among  them  it  was 
not  at  him,  after  her  first  wide  glance,  that  she 
looked,  but,  still  as  if  through  the  crystal  bottle,  at 
her  mother,  and  the  look  was,  at  all  events,  a  con 
fession  of  utter  inadequacy  to  deal  with  the  situa 
tion  in  which  she  found  herself. 

It  was  Valerie,  once  more,  who  steered  them  all 
past  the  giddy  whirlpool.  Jack,  beside  her,  his 
heart  and  brain  turning  in  dizzy  circles,  marveled 
at  her  steadiness  of  eye,  her  clearness  of  voice.  He 
would  have  liked  to  lean  against  a  tree  and  get  his 


368  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

breath;  but  this  delicate  creature,  rising  from  her 
rack,  could  move  forward  to  her  place  beside  the 
helm,  and  smile ! 

"Sir  Basil,"  she  said,  and  she  put  out  her  hand 
to  him  so  mildly  that  Sir  Basil  may  well  have  thought 
his  rather  uncomfortable  rendezvous  redeemed  into 
happiest  convention,  "here  we  all  are  waiting  for 
you,  and  here  we  are  going  to  leave  you,  you  and 
Imogen,  to  take  a  walk  and  to  say  some  of  all  the 
things  you  will  have  to  say  to  each  other.  Give  me 
your  hand,  Imogen.  There,  dear  friend,  I  think 
that  it  is  yours,  and  I  trust  her  life  to  you  with  my 
blessing.  Now  take  your  walk.  I  will  wait  for 
you,  as  late  as  you  like,  in  the  drawing-room." 

So  was  the  bottled  genie  released,  so  did  it  re 
sume  once  more  the  figure  of  a  girl,  hardly  humbled, 
yet,  it  must  be  granted,  deeply  confused.  In  perfect 
silence  Imogen  walked  away  beside  her  suitor,  and  it 
may  be  said  that  she  never  told  him  of  the  little 
episode  that  had  preceded  his  arrival.  Jack  and 
Valerie  went  slowly  on  toward  the  house.  Now  that 
she  had  grasped  the  helm  through  the  whirlpool  he 
almost  expected  that  she  would  fall  upon  the  deck. 
But,  silently,  she  walked  beside  him,  not  taking  his 
arm,  wrapped  closely  in  her  shawl,  and,  once  more 
inside  the  dark  drawing-room,  she  proceeded  to 
light  the  candles  on  the  mantel-piece,  saying  that  she 
would  wait  there  until  the  others  came  in,  smiling 
very  faintly  as  she  added:— "That  everything  may 
be  done  properly  and  in  order."  Jack  walked  up 
and  down  the  room,  his  hands  deeply  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  his  dining-jacket. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  369 

"As  for  you,  you  had  better  go  to  bed,"  Valerie 
went  on  after  a  moment.  She  had  placed  the  can 
dles  on  a  table,  taken  a  chair  near  them  and  chosen 
a  review.  She  turned  the  pages  while  she  spoke. 

At  this,  he,  too,  being  disposed  of,  he  stopped  be 
fore  her.  ' '  And  you  wanted  me  to  be  glad ! ' ' 

Her  eyes  on  the  unseen  print,  she  turned  her 
pages,  and  now  that  they  were  out  of  the  woods  and 
surrounded  by  walls  and  furniture  and  everyday 
symbols,  he  saw  that  the  pressure  of  his  presence 
was  heavier,  and  that  she  blushed  a  deep,  weary 
blush.  But  she  was  able  and  willing  quite  to  dis 
pose  of  him.  "I  want  you  to  be  glad,"  she  an 
swered. 

"For  her!" — For  that  creature! — his  words  im 
plied. 

"It  was  natural,  what  she  thought,"  said  Valerie 
after  a  moment,  though  not  looking  up. 

"Natural!— To  suspect  you!" 

"Of  what  you  wanted  me  to  do?"  Valerie  asked. 
"Yes,  it  was  quite  natural,  I  think,  and  partly  be 
cause  of  your  maneuvers,  my  poor  Jack.  I  under 
stand  it  all  now.  But  the  cause  you  espoused  was 
already  a  doomed  one,  you  see." 

"Oh!"  he  almost  groaned.  "You  doomed  it! 
Don't  you  feel  any  pity  for  him  I'1 

Valerie  continued  to  look  at  her  page,  silently,  for 
a  moment,  and  it  was  now  indeed  as  though  his  ques 
tion  found  some  reverberating  echo  in  herself.  But, 
in  the  silent  moment,  she  thought  it  out  swiftly  and 
surely,  grasping  old  clues. 

"No,  Jack,"  she  said,  and  she  was  giving  herself, 

24 


370  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

as  well  as  him,  the  final  answer,  "I  don't  pity  him. 
He  will  never  see  Imogen  baffled,  warped,  at  bay, — 
as  we  have.  He  will  always  see  her  crowned,  suc 
cessful,  radiant.  She  will  count  tremendously  over 
there,  far  more  than  I  ever  would,  because  she  's  so 
different,  because  she  cares  such  a  lot.  And  Imogen 
must  count  to  be  radiant.  She  will  help  him  in  all 
sorts  of  ways,  give  him  a  new  life;  she  will  help 
everybody.  Do  you  remember  what  Eddy  said  of 
her,  that  if  it  were  n't  for  people  of  the  Imogen  type 
the  cripples  would  die  off  like  anything?— That  was 
true.  She  is  one  of  the  people  who  make  the  wheels 
of  the  world  go  round.  And  it  's  a  revival  for  a 
man  like  Sir  Basil  to  live  with  such  a  person.  With 
me  he  would  have  faded  back  into  the  onlooker  at 
life;  with  Imogen  he  will  live.  And  then,  above 
all,  quite  above  all,  he  is  in  love  with  her.  I  think 
that  he  fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight,  as  Anti 
gone,  at  her  loveliest,  except  for  to-night;  to-night 
was  her  very  loveliest— because  it  was  so  real;— she 
would  have  claimed  him  from  me — before  me — if  he 
had  come  then ;  and  her  belief  in  herself,  did  n  't  you 
see,  Jack,  how  it  illumined  her?— And  then,  Jack, 
and  this  I  'm  afraid  you  are  forgetting,  Imogen  is 
a  good  girl,  a  very  good  girl.  I  can  trust  him  to 
her,  you  know.  Her  object  in  life  will  be  to  love 
him  in  the  most  magnificent  way  possible.  His 
happiness  will  be  as  much  of  an  end  to  her  as  her 
own." 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  culminating  symptom  of  his 
initiation,  of  his  transformation,  when  Jack,  who 
had  considered  her  while  she  spoke,  standing  per- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  371 

fectly  still,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  head  bent, 
his  eyes  steadily  on  her,  now,  finding  nothing  better 
to  do  than  obey  her  first  suggestion  and  go  to  bed, 
took  her  hand  before  going,  put  it  to  his  lips — and 
his  glance,  as  he  kissed  her  hand,  brought  the  tears, 
again,  to  Valerie's  eyes-~dnd  said:  "Damn  good 
ness." 


XXIX 

>MOGEN  was,  indeed,  crowned  and  ra 
diant.  And,  safe  on  her  eminence,  re 
covered  from  the  breathlessness  of  her 
rather  unbecoming  vigorous  ascent,  she 
found  her  old  serenity,  her  old  benign- 
safely  enfolded  her  once  more.  In  looking 
down  upon  the  dusty  lowlands,  where  she  had  been 
blind  and  bitter,  she  could  afford  to  smile  over  her 
self,  even  to  shake  her  head  a  little  over  the  vehe 
mence  of  her  own  fear  and  courage.  It  was  to  have 
lacked  faith,  to  have  lacked  wisdom,  the  showing 
of  such  vehemence;  yet,  who  knew,  without  it,  per 
haps,  she  might  not  have  escaped  the  nets  that  had 
been  laid  for  her  feet,  for  Basil's  feet,  too,  his  strong 
and  simple  nature  making  him  helpless  before  sly 
ambushes.  Jack,  in  declaring  himself  her  enemy, 
had  effectually  killed  the  last  faint  wailing  that  had 
so  piteously,  so  magnanimously,  sounded  on  for  him 
in  her  heart.  He  had,  by  his  trickster's  dexterity, 
proved  to  her,  if  she  needed  proof,  that  she  had 
chosen  the  higher.  A  man  who  could  so  stoop— to 
lies — was  not  the  man  for  her.  To  say  nothing  of 
his  iniquity,  his  folly  was  apparent.  For  Jack  had 
behaved  like  a  fool,  he  must  see  that  himself,  in  his 
espousal  of  a  lost  cause. 

372 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  373 

Jack  as  delinquent  stood  plain,  and  she  would  ac 
cuse  no  one  else.  In  the  bottom  of  Imogen's  heart 
lingered,  however,  the  suspicion  that  only  when  her 
mother  had  seen  the  cause  as  lost,  the  contest  as  use 
less,  had  she  hastily  assumed  the  dignified  attitude 
that,  for  the  dizzy,  moonlit  moment,  had,  so  hu- 
miliatingly,  sealed  her,  Imogen,  into  the  magic  bot 
tle.  Imogen  suspected  that  she  had  n't  been  so 
wrong,  nor  her  mother  so  magnanimous  as  had  then 
appeared,  and  this  secret  suspicion  made  it  the  easier 
for  her  to  accept  the  seeming,  since  to  do  that  was 
to  show  herself  anybody's  equal  in  magnanimity. 
She  was  quite  sure  that  her  mother,  in  her  shallow 
way,  had  cared  for  Basil,  and  not  at  all  sure  that  she 
had  relinquished  her  hope  at  the  first  symptom  of 
his  change  of  heart.  But,  though  one  could  n't 
but  feel  stern  at  the  thought,  one  could  n't,  also,  re 
press  something  of  pity  for  the  miscalculation  of  the 
defeated  love.  To  feel  pity,  moreover,  was  to  show 
herself  anybody's  equal  in  heart; — Jack's  accusa 
tions  rankled. 

Yes;  considering  all  things,  and  in  spite  of  the 
things  that,  she  must  always  suspect,  were  hidden, 
her  mother  had  behaved  extremely  well. 

"And  above  all,"  Imogen  thought,  summing  it  up 
in  terms  at  once  generous  and  apt,  "she  has  be 
haved  like  the  gentlewoman  that  she  is.  With  all 
her  littlenesses,  all  her  lacks,  mama  is  essentially 
that."  And  the  sweetest  moments  of  self -justifica 
tion  were  those  in  which  her  heart  really  ached  a  lit 
tle  for  "poor  mama,"  moments  in  which  she  won 
dered  whether  the  love  that  had  come  to  her,  in  her 


374  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

great  sorrow,  high  among  the  pine  woods,  had  ever 
been  her  mother's  to  lose.  The  wonder  made  her 
doubly  secure  and  her  mother  really  piteous. 

It  was  easy,  her  heart  stayed  on  such  heights,  to 
suffer  very  tolerantly  the  little  stings  that  flew  up 
to  her  from  the  buzzing,  startled  world.  Jack  she 
did  not  see  again,  until  the  day  of  her  wedding,  only 
a  month  later,  and  then  his  face,  showing  vaguely 
among  the  shimmering  crowd,  seemed  but  an  empty 
mask  of  the  past.  Jack  departed  early  on  the  morn 
ing  after  her  betrothal,  and  it  was  only  lesser  won 
ders  that  she  had  to  face.  Mary's  was  the  one  that 
teased  most,  and  Imogen  might  have  felt  some  irri 
tation  had  that  not  now  been  so  inappropriate  a  sen 
sation,  before  Mary's  stare,  a  stare  that  seemed  to 
resume  and  take  in,  in  the  moment  of  stupefaction, 
a  world  of  new  impressions.  The  memory  of  Mary 
staring,  with  her  hair  done  in  a  new  and  becoming 
way,  was  to  remain  for  Imogen  as  a  symbol  of  the 
vexatious  and  altered,  perhaps  the  corrupted  life, 
that  she  was,  after  all,  leaving  for  good  in  leaving 
her  native  land. 

"Sir  Basil!— You  are  going  to  marry  Sir  Basil, 
Imogen!"  said  Mary. 

"Yes,  dear.     Does  that  surprise  you?     Have  n't 
you,  really,  seen  it  coming?— We  fancied  that  every 
one  must  be  guessing,  while  we  were  finding  it  out 
for  ourselves,"  Imogen  answered,  ever  so  gently. 
"No,  I  never  saw  it,  never  dreamed  of  it." 
"It  seemed  so  impossible?      Why,  Mary  dear?" 
"I  don't  know;— he  is  so  much  older;— he  is  n't 
an  American;— you  won't  live  in  your  own  coun- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  375 

try;— I  never  imagined  you  marrying  anyone  but 
an  American." 

The  deepest  wonder,  Imogen  knew  it  very  well, 
was  the  one  she  could  not  express:— I  thought  that 
he  was  in  love  with  your  mother. 

Imogen  smiled  over  the  simplicity  of  the  spoken 
surprises.  ' '  I  don 't  think  that  the  question  of  years 
separates  people  so  at  one  as  Basil  and  I,"  she  said. 
"You  would  find  how  little  such  things  meant,  Mary 
mine,  if  your  calm  little  New  England  heart  ever 
came  to  know  what  a  great  love  is.  As  for  my  coun 
try,  my  country  will  be  my  husband's  country,  but 
that  will  not  make  me  love  my  old  home  the  less, 
nor  make  me  forget  all  the  things  that  life  has 
taught  me  here,  any  more  than  I  shall  be  the  less 
myself  for  being  a  bigger  and  better  self  as  his 
wife."  And  Imogen  looked  so  uplifted  in  saying  it 
that  poor,  bewildered  Mary  felt  that  Mrs.  Upton, 
after  all,  was  right,  one  could  n't  tell  where  right- 
ness  was.  Such  love  as  Imogen's  could  n't  be 
wrong.  All  the  same,  she  was  not  sorry  that  Imo 
gen,  all  transfigured  as  she  undoubtedly  was,  should 
be  going  very  far  away.  Mary  did  not  feel  happy 
with  Imogen  any  longer. 

Rose  took  the  tidings  in  a  very  unpleasant  man 
ner;  but  then  Rose  did  n't  count;  in  any  circum 
stances  her  effrontery  went  without  saying.  One 
simply  looked  over  it,  as  in  this  case,  when  it  took 
the  form  of  an  absolute  silence,  a  white,  smiling  si 
lence. 

Oddly  enough,  from  the  extreme  of  Rose's  anger, 
came  Eddy's  chance.  She  did  n't  tell  Eddy  that 


376  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

she  saw  his  mother  as  robbed  and  that,  in  silence,  her 
heart  bled  for  her;  but  she  did  say  to  him,  several 
days  after  Imogen's  announcement,  that,  yes,  she 
would. 

' '  I  know  that  I  should  be  bound  to  take  you  some 
day,  and  I  'd  rather  do  it  just  now  when  your 
mother  has  quite  enough  bothers  to  see  to  without 
having  your  anxieties  on  her  mind !  I  11  never  un 
derstand  anyone  so  well  as  I  do  you,  or  quarrel  with 
anyone  so  comfortably ;— and  besides,"  Rose  added 
with  characteristic  impertinence,  "the  truth  is,  my 
dear,  that  I  want  to  be  your  mother's  daughter. 
It  's  that  that  has  done  it.  I  want  to  show 
her  how  nice  a  daughter  can  be  to  her.  I  want  to 
take  Imogen's  place.  I  '11  be  an  extremely  bad 
wife,  Eddy,  but  a  good  daughter-in-law.  I  adore 
your  mother  so  much  that  for  her  sake  I  11  put  up 
with  you." 

Eddy  said  that  she  might  adore  any  one  as  much 
as  she  liked  so  long  as  she  allowed  him  to  put  up 
with  her  for  a  lifetime.  They  did  understand  each 
other,  these  two,  and  Valerie,  though  a  little 
troubled  by  the  something  hard  and  bright  in  their 
warring  courtship,  something  that,  she  feared,  would 
make  their  path,  though  always  illuminated,  often 
rough,  could  welcome  her  new  daughter  with  real 
gladness. 

"I  know  that  you  11  never  care  for  me,  as  I  do 
for  you,"  said  Rose,  "and  that  you  will  often  scold 
me;  but  your  scoldings  will  be  my  religion.  Don't 
spare  them.  You  are  my  ideal,  you  know." 

This  speech,  made  in  her  presence,  was,  Imogen 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  8-77 

knew,  intended  as  a  cut  at  herself.  She  heard  it 
serenely.  But  Rose  was  more  vexatious  than  Mary 
in  that  she  was  n't  leaving  her  behind.  Rose  was 
already  sparring  with  Eddy  as  to  when  he  would 
take  her  over  to  England  for  a  season  of  hunting. 
Eddy  firmly  held  himself  before  her  as  a  poor  man, 
and  when  Rose  dangled  her  own  wealth  before  him 
remarked  that  she  could,  of  course,  go  without  him, 
if  she  liked.  It  was  evident,  in  spite  of  sparring 
and  hardness,  that  Rose  would  n't  like  at  all;  and 
evident,  too,  that  Eddy  would  often  be  wheedled  into 
a  costly  holiday.  Imogen  had  to  foresee  a  future  of 
tolerance  toward  Rose.  Their  worlds  would  not  do 
more  than  merge  here  and  there. 

Imogen  had,  already,  very  distinct  ideas  as  to  her 
new  world.  It  hovered  as  important  and  political; 
the  business  of  Rose's  world  would  be  its  relaxation 
only.  For  Imogen  would  never  change  colors,  and 
her  frown  for  mere  fashion  would  be  as  sad  as  ever. 
She  was  not  to  change,  she  was  only  to  intensify,  to 
become  "bigger  and  better."  And  this  essential 
stability  was  not  contradicted  by  the  fact  that,  in 
one  or  two  instances,  she  found  herself  developing. 
She  was  glad,  and  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Wake, 
gravely  to  renounce  past  errors  as  to  the  English 
people.  Since  coming  to  know  Basil,  typical  of  his 
race,  its  flower,  as  he  was,  she  had  come  to  see  how 
far  deeper  in  many  respects,  how  far  more  evolved 
that  English  character  was  than  their  own,— 
"their,"  now,  signifying  "your."  "You  really 
saw  that  before  I  did,  dear  Mrs.  Wake,"  said 
Imogen. 


378  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Already  Imogen  identified  herself  with  her  future 
husband  so  that  the  defects  of  the  younger  civiliza 
tion  seemed  no  longer  her  affair,  except  in  so  far  as 
her  understanding  of  them,  her  love  of  her  dear 
country,  and  her  new  enlightenments,  made  her  the 
more  eager  to  help.  And  then  they  were  all  of  the 
same  race;  she  was  very  insistent  on  that;  it  was 
merely  that  the  branch  to  which  she  now  belonged 
was  a  "bigger  and  better  branch."  Imogen  was 
none  the  less  a  good  American  for  becoming  so  de 
voutly  English.  From  her  knowledge  of  the 
younger,  more  ardent,  civilization,  her  long  training 
in  its  noblest  school,  she  could  help  the  old  in  many 
ways.  England,  in  these  respects,  was  like  her  Basil, 
before  she  had  wakened  him.  Imogen  felt  that 
England,  too,  needed  her.  And  there  was  undoubt 
edly  a  satisfaction  in  flashing  that  new  world  of 
hers,  so  large,  so  in  need  of  her,— in  flashing  it,  like 
a  bright,  and,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  a  somewhat  daz 
zling  object,  before  the  vexatiously  imperturbable 
eyes  of  Mrs.  "Wake.  Mrs.  Wake's  dry  smile  of  con 
gratulation  had  been  almost  as  unpleasant  as  Rose's 
silence. 

From  Miss  Bocock  there  was  neither  smile,  nor 
sting,  nor  silence  to  endure.  Miss  Bocock  had  sus 
pected  nothing,  either  on  the  mother's  side  or  on  the 
daughter's,  and  took  the  announcement  very  plac 
idly.  "Indeed.  Really.  How  very  nice.  Ac 
cept  my  congratulations,"  were  her  comments. 
Imogen  at  once  asked  her  to  spend  a  week-end  at 
Thremdon  Hall  next  Spring,  and  Miss  Bocock  in 
just  the  same  way  said:  "Thanks.  That  will  be 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  379 

very  nice.  I  've  never  stayed  there. ' '  There  was 
still  a  subtle  irritation  in  the  fact  that  while  Miss 
Bocock  now  accepted  her,  in  the  order  of  things,  as 
one  of  the  "county  people,"  as  the  gracious  mis 
tress  of  Thremdon  Hall,  as  very  much  above  a  coun 
try  doctor's  family,  she  did  n't  seem  to  regard  her 
with  any  more  interest  or  respect  as  an  individual. 

These,  after  all,  were  the  superficialities  of  the 
situation ;  its  deeper  aspects  were,  Imogen  felt,  as  yet 
unfaced.  Her  mother  seemed  quite  content  to  let 
Imogen's  silence  stand  for  apology  and  retractation, 
quite  willing  to  go  on,  for  the  little  further  that 
they  had  to  go  together,  in  an  ambiguous  relation. 
This  was,  indeed,  Imogen  felt,  her  mother 's  strength ; 
she  could,  apparently,  put  up  with  any  amount  of 
ambiguity  and  probably  looked  upon  it  as  an  essen 
tial  part  of  life.  Perhaps,  and  here  Imogen  was 
conscious  of  a  twinge  of  anxiety,  she  put  up  with 
it  so  quietly  because  she  did  n't  recognize  it  in  her 
self,  in  her  own  motives  and  actions;  and  this 
thought  teased  at  Imogen  until  she  determined  that 
she  must  stand  forth  in  the  light  and  show  her 
mother  that  she,  too,  was  self-assured  and  she,  too, 
magnanimous. 

She  armed  herself  for  the  task  by  a  little  talk  with 
Sir  Basil,  the  nearest  approach  they  ever  allowed 
themselves  to  the  delicate  complexities  in  which  they 
had  come  to  recognize  each  other  and  out  of  which, 
to  a  certain  extent,  they  had  had  to  fight  their  way 
to  the  present  harmony.  She  was  with  him,  again, 
among  the  laurels,  a  favorite  place  with  them,  and 
Imogen  sat  on  her  former  ledge  of  sunny  rock  and 


380  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Sir  Basil  was  extended  beside  her  on  the  moss.  She 
had  been  reading  Emerson  to  him,  and  when  the  es 
say  was  finished  and  she  had  talked  to  him  a  little 
about  the  "over-soul,"— dear  Basil's  recollections  of 
metaphysics  were  very  confused, — she  presently 
said  to  him,  letting  her  hand  slide  into  his  while  she 
spoke: — "Basil,  dearest, — I  want  to  ask  you  some 
thing,  and  you  must  answer  very  truly,  for  you  need 
never  fear  that  I  would  flinch  from  any  truth.  Tell 
me,— did  you  ever,— ever  care  for  mama?" 

Sir  Basil,  his  hat  tilted  over  his  eyes,  grew  very 
red  and  looked  down  at  the  moss  for  some  moments 
without  replying. 

"Of  course  I  know  that,  in  some  sense,  you  did 
care,"  said  Imogen,  a  faint  tremble  in  her  voice, 
a  tremble  that,  in  its  sweet  acquiescence  to  some 
thing  that  was  hurting  her,  touched  him  infinitely. 
"I  know,  too,  that  there  are  loves  and  loves.  I 
know  that  anything  you  may  have  felt  for  mama  is 
as  different  from  what  you  feel  for  me  as  lamp 
light  is  from  daylight.  I  won't  speak  of  it,  ever, 
again,  dear  Basil ;  but  for  this  once  let  me  see 
clearly  what  was  in  your  past." 

"I  did  care  for  her,"  Sir  Basil  jerked  out  at 
that;— "quite  tremendously,  until  I  saw  you.  She 
will  always  be  a  dear  friend,  one  of  the  dearest,  most 
charming  people  I  've  ever  known.  And,  no,  it 
was  n't  like  lamplight,  you  know";— something  in 
that  analogy  was  so  hurting  Sir  Basil  that  it  made 
him,  for  a  moment,  forget  his  darling's  hurt;— "that 
was  n't  it.  Though,  it  's  quite  true,  you  're  like 
daylight." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  381 

"And — and— she?" — Imogen  accepted  the  re 
statement,  though  her  voice  trembled  a  little  more. 

He  now  looked  up  at  her,  a  clear,  blue  ray  from 
his  honest  eyes.  ""Well,  there,  you  know,  it  has 
been  a  relief.  I  could  never  tell,  in  the  past;  she 
showed  me  nothing,  except  that  friendship  ;  but  since 
she  has  been  free,  since  I  've  seen  her  over  here, 
she  has  shown  me  quite  clearly,  that  it  was,  on  her 
side,  only  that." 

Imogen  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  She  did  n't 
"know"  at  all.  And  there  was  a  great  deal  to  ac 
cept;  more,  oddly  enough,  than  she  had  ever  faced. 
She  had  always  believed  that  it  had  been  like  lamp 
light  to  daylight.  But,  whatever  it  had  been,  the 
day  had  conquered  it.  And  how  dear,  how  noble  of 
her  lover  to  show,  so  unfalteringly,  his  loyalty  to 
the  past.  It  was  with  a  sigh  made  up  of  many 
satisfactions  that  she  said  at  last: — "Dear  mama; 
—I  am  so  glad  that  I  took  nothing  she  cared  for 
from  her." 

It  was  on  that  afternoon  that  she  found  her  time 
for  ' '  standing  forth  in  the  light ' '  before  her  mother. 

She  did  n  't  want  it  to  be  indoors ;  she  felt,  vaguely, 
that  four  walls  would  make  them  too  intimate,  as  it 
were ;  shut  them  into  their  mutual  consciousness  too 
closely.  So  that  when  she  saw  her  mother,  after 
tea,  watering  and  gathering  her  flowers  at  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  she  went  out  to  her,  across  the  grass, 
sweet  and  mild  in  the  long  white  dress  that  she  had 
worn  since  joy  had  come  to  her. 

She  wished  to  be  veiy  direct,  very  simple,  very 
sweet. 


382  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

"Mama  darling,"  she  said,  standing  there  be 
side  her  while  Valerie,  after  a  quiet  glance  up  at  her, 
continued  to  cut  her  roses;— "I  want  to  say  some 
thing  to  you.  This  seems  such  a  beautiful  time  to 
say  deep,  grave  things  in,  does  n't  it,  this  late  af 
ternoon  hour?  I  've  wanted  to  say  it  since  the 
other  night  when,  through  poor  Jack's  folly  of  re 
venge  and  blindness,  we  were  all  put  into  such  an 
ugly  muddle,  at  such  ugly  cross-purposes."  She 
paused  here  and  Valerie,  giving  neither  assent  nor 
negation,  said:  "Yes,  Imogen?" 

"I  want  to  say  to  you  that  I  am  sorry,  mama 
dear";— Imogen  spoke  gravely  and  with  empha 
sis; — "sorry,  in  the  first  place,  that  I  should  so  have 
misjudged  you  as  to  imagine  that— at  your  time  of 
life  and  after  your  sobering  experience  of  life — you 
were  involved  in  a  love  affair.  I  see,  now,  what  a 
wrong  that  was  to  do  to  you — to  your  dignity,  your 
sense  of  right  and  fitness.  And  I  'm  sorrier  that  I 
should  have  thought  you  capable  of  seconding  Jack's 
attempts  to  keep  from  me  a  love  that  had  drawn  to 
me  as  a  magnet  to  the  north.  The  first  mistake  led 
to  the  second.  I  had  heard  your  friends  conjectur 
ing  as  to  your  feeling  for  Basil,  and  the  pain  of  sus 
pecting  that  of  you — my  father's  new-made  widow — 
led  me  astray.  I  think  that  in  any  great  new  ex 
perience  one's  whole  nature  is  perhaps  a  little  off- 
balance,  confused.  I  had  suffered  so  much,  in  so 
many  ways;— his  death  ;— Jack's  unworthiness;— 
this  fear  for  you; — and  then,  in  these  last  days,  for 
what  you  know,  mama,  for  him,  because  of  him — 
my  father,  a  suffering  that  no  joy  will  ever  efface, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  383 

that  I  was  made,  I  think,  for  a  little  time,  a  stranger 
to  myself.  And  then  came  love — wonderful  love — 
and  it  shook  my  nature  to  its  depths.  I  was  daz 
zled,  torn,  tempest-tossed;— I  did  not  see  clearly. 
Let  that  be  my  excuse. ' ' 

Valerie  still  stopped  over  her  roses,  her  fingers 
delicately,  accurately  busy,  and  her  face,  under  the 
broad  brim  of  her  hat,  hidden. 

Again  Imogen  paused,  the  rhythm  of  her  words, 
like  an  echo  of  his  voice  in  her  own,  bringing  a  sud 
den  sharp,  sweet,  reminiscence  of  her  father,  so  that 
the  tears  had  risen  to  her  eyes  in  hearing  herself. 
And  again,  for  all  reply,  her  mother  once  more  said 
only:  "Yes,  Imogen." 

It  was  not  the  reply  she  had  expected,  not  the  re 
ply  that  she  had  a  right  to  expect,  and,  even  out 
there,  with  the  flowers,  so  impersonally  lovely,  about 
them,  the  late  radiance  softly  bathing  them,  as  if  in 
rays  of  forgiveness  and  mild  pity,  even  with  the 
tears,  evidences  of  sorrow  and  magnanimity,  in  her 
eyes,  Imogen  felt  a  little  at  a  loss,  a  little  confused. 

"That  is,  all,  mama,"  she  said; — "just  that  I 
am  sorry,  and  that  I  want  you  to  feel,  in  spite  of  all 
the  sad,  the  tragic  things  that  there  have  been  be 
tween  us,  that  my  deep  love  for  you  is  there,  and  that 
you  must  trust  it  always." 

And  now  there  was  another  silence.  Valerie 
stooping  to  her  flowers,  mysterious,  ambiguous  in 
deed,  in  her  shadow,  her  silence. 

Imogen,  for  all  the  glory  of  her  mood,  felt  a  thrill 
of  anger,  and  the  reminiscence  that  came  to  her  now 
was  of  her  father's  pain,  his  familiar  pain,  for  such 


384  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

shadows,  such  silences,  such  blights  cast  upon  his 
highest  impulses.  "I  hope,  mama,  that  you  will 
always  trust  my  love,"  she  said,  mastering  the  rising 
of  her  resentment. 

And  once  more  came  the  monotonous  answer,  but 
given  this  time  with  a  new  note:— "Yes,  Imogen," 
her  mother  replied,  "you  may  always  trust  my 
love." 

She  rose  at  that,  and  her  eyes  passed  swiftly  across 
her  daughter's  face,  swiftly  and  calmly.  She  was  a 
little  flushed,  but  that  might  have  been  from  the 
long  bending  over  the  flowers,  and  if  it  was  a  jug 
gling  dexterity  that  she  used,  she  had  used  it  indeed 
so  dexterously  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  say  any 
thing  more.  Imogen  could  find  no  words  in  which 
to  set  the  turned  tables  straight. 

She  had  imagined  their  little  scene  ending  very 
beautifully  in  a  grave  embrace  and  kiss ;  but  no  op 
portunity  was  given  her  for  this  final  demonstration 
of  her  spirit  of  charity.  Her  mother  gathered  up 
her  scissors,  her  watering-pot,  her  trowel,  and  hand 
ing  Imogen  the  filled  basket  of  roses  said,  "Will 
you  carry  these  for  me,  my  dear  ? ' ' 

The  tone  of  quiet,  everyday  kindness  dispelled  all 
glory,  and  set  a  lower  standard.  Here,  at  this  place, 
very  much  on  the  earth,  Imogen  would  always  find 
her,  it  seemed  to  say.  It  said  nothing  else. 

Yet  Imogen  knew,  as  she  walked  back  beside  her 
mother,  knew  quite  as  well  as  if  her  mother  had 
spoken  the  words,  that  her  proffered  love  had  not 
been  trusted,  that  she  had  been  penetrated,  judged, 
and,  in  some  irresistible  way,  a  way  that  brought  no 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  385 

punishment  and  no  reproof,  nor  even  any  lessening 
of  affection,  condemned.  Her  mother  still  loved  her, 
that  was  the  helpless  conviction  that  settled  upon 
her ;  but  it  was  as  a  child,  not  as  a  personality,  that 
she  was  loved, — very  much  as  Miss  Bocock  respected 
her  as  the  mistress  of  Thremdon  Hall  and  not  at  all 
on  her  own  account ;  but  her  mother,  too,  for  all  her 
quiet,  and  all  her  kindness,  thought  her  "  self-cen 
tered,  self-righteous,  cold-hearted,"  and — Imogen,  in 
a  sharp  pang  of  insight,  saw  it  all— because  of  that 
would  not  attempt  any  soul-stirring  appeal  or  ar 
raignment.  She  knew  too  well  with  what  arms  of 
spiritual  assurance  she  would  be  met. 

It  was  in  silence,  while  they  walked  side  by  side, 
the  basket  of  roses  between  them,  that  Imogen 
fiercely  seized  these  arms,  fiercely  parried  the  un- 
uttered  arraignment,  and,  more  fiercely,  the  unut- 
tered  love. 

She  could  claim  no  verbal  victory,  she  had  had  to 
endure  no  verbal  defeat ;  it  was  she  herself  who  had 
forced  this  issue  upon  a  situation  that  her  mother 
would  have  been  content  to  leave  undefined.  Her 
mother  would  never  fix  blame;  her  mother  would 
never  humiliate ;  but,  she  had  found  it  to  her  own 
cost,— though  the  cost  was  as  light  as  her  mother 
could  make  it — she  would  not  consent  to  be  placed 
where  Imogen  had  wished  to  place  her.  Let  it  be 
so,  then,  let  it  end  on  this  note  of  seeming  harmony 
and  of  silent  discord;  it  was  her  mother's  act,  not 
her  own.  Truth  was  in  her  and  had  made  once  more 
its  appeal ;  once  more  deep  had  called  to  deep  only 
to  find  shallowness.  For  spiritual  shallowness  there 

25 


386  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

must  be  where  an  appeal  such  as  hers  could  be  so 
misunderstood  and  so  rejected. 

She  was  angry,  sore,  vindictive,  though  her  sharp 
insight  did  not  reach  so  far  as  to  tell  her  this ;  it  did, 
however,  tell  her  that  she  was  wounded  to  the  quick. 
But  the  final  refuge  was  in  the  thought  that  she  was 
soon  to  leave  such  judgments  and  such  loves  behind 
her  for  ever. 


T  was  on  a  late  October  day  that  Jack 
Pennington     rode    over    the    hills    to 
Valerie's  summer  home. 

Two  months  were  gone  since  Imo 
gen's  reporter-haunted  nuptials  had 
been  celebrated  in  the  bland  little  country  church 
that  raised  its  white  steeple  from  the  woodlands. 
Jack  had  been  present  at  them ;  decency  had  made 
that  necessary,  and  a  certain  grimness  in  his  aspect 
was  easily  to  be  interpreted  in  a  dismal,  defeated 
rival.  It  was  as  such,  he  knew,  that  he  was  seen 
there. 

It  had  been  a  funny  wedding, — to  apply  none  of 
the  other  terms  that  lay  deeper  in  him.  In  watch 
ing  it  from  the  white-wreathed  chancel  he  had 
thought  of  Valerie 's  summing-up :  ' '  Imogen  is  one 
of  the  people  who  make  the  world  go  round."  The 
world  in  every  phase  had  been  there,  from  the  Brit 
ish  ambassador  and  the  Langleys  to  the  East  Side 
club  girls— brought  up  from  New  York  in  the  special 
train— and  a  flourishing  consignment  of  cripples  and 
nurses.  Here  and  there  in  her  path  Imogen  might 
meet  the  blankness  of  a  Miss  Bocock,  the  irony  of  a 

387 


388  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Mrs.  Wake,  a  disillusion  like  Mary's,  an  insight  like 
his  own ;  but  the  great  world,  in  its  aspect  of  power 
and  simplicity,  would  be  with  her  always.  He  had 
realized  as  never  before  Imogen's  capacity,  when  he 
saw  the  cohorts  of  her  friends  and  followers  over 
flow  the  church. 

She  had  been  a  fitting  center  to  it  all ;  though  the 
center,  for  Jack,  was  Valerie,  exquisite,  mildly  ra 
diant,  not  a  hint  on  her  of  dispossession  or  of  doom ; 
but  Imogen,  white  and  rapt  and  grave,  had  looked 
almost  as  wonderful  as  on  the  day  when  she  had 
first  dawned  upon  Sir  Basil's  vision. 

Jack,  watching  her  uplifted  profile  as  she  stood 
at  the  altar-rail,  found  himself  trivially,  spitefully, 
irrelevantly  murmuring: — "Her  nose  is  too  small." 
And  yet  she  looked  more  than  ever  like  a  Botticelli 
Madonna. 

Rose  and  Eddy  were  to  be  married  that  winter  in 
New  York,  a  gigantic  opportunity  for  the  news 
papers,  for  already  half  the  world  seemed  trooping 
to  the  festivities.  Afterward,  with  old-fashioned 
Americanism,  they  would  live  in  quite  a  little  house 
and  try  to  forget  about  Rose's  fortune  until  Eddy 
made  his. 

Valerie  was  to  have  none  of  the  bother  of  this 
wedding.  Mrs.  Packer,  a  mournful,  jeweled,  faded 
little  beauty,  was  well  fitted  to  cope  with  such  emer 
gencies.  Her  secretaries  sat  already  with  pens 
poised. 

Imogen's  wedding  had  kept  her  mother  working 
like  a  galley-slave,  so  Rose  told  Jack,  with  the  fa 
miliarity  that  was  now  justifiable  in  one  who  was  al- 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  389 

most  of  the  family,  and  that  Eddy  had  told  her, 
with  much  disgust  of  demeanor,  that  its  financing 
had  eaten  pretty  deeply  into  his  mother's  shrunken 
means.  Rose  made  no  open  denunciation;  she,  no 
more  than  anyone  else,  could  guess  from  Jack's  si 
lence  what  his  feeling  about  Imogen  might  really 
be.  But  she  was  sure  that  he  was  well  over  her, 
and  that,  above  all,  he  was  one  of  the  elect  who  saw 
Mrs.  Upton;  she  could  allow  herself  a  musing  sur 
vey  of  all  that  the  mother  had  done  for  the  daugh 
ter,  adding,  and  it  was  really  with  a  wish  for  strict 
justice:  "Of  course  Imogen  never  had  any  idea  of 
money,  and  she  '11  never  realize  what  she  cost." 
In  another  and  a  deeper  sense  it  might  be  that  that 
was  the  kindest  as  well  as  the  truest  thing  to  say  of 
Imogen. 

Since  the  wedding  he  knew  that  Valerie  had  been 
quietly  at  the  little  house  among  the  hills,  alone  for 
the  most  part,  though  Mrs.  Wake  was  often  with 
her  and  the  Pakenhams  had  paid  her  a  visit  on  their 
way  back  to  England.  Now  Mrs.  Wake  was  gone 
back  to  New  York,  and  her  own  departure  was  to 
take  place  in  a  few  days.  Jack,  spending  a  week 
end  with  friends  not  beyond  riding  distance,  felt 
that  he  must  see  her  again  in  the  surroundings  where 
he  had  come  to  know  her  so  well  and  to  know  him 
self  as  so  changed. 

He  rode  over  the  crests  of  hills  in  the  flaming, 
aromatic  woods.  The  fallen  leaves  paved  his  way 
with  gold.  In  the  deep  distances,  before  him  a  still, 
blue  haze,  like  the  bloom  on  ripe  grape-clusters,  lay 
over  the  purples  of  the  lower  ranges.  Above,  about, 


390  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

before  him  was  the  blue  sky  of  the  wonderful  Ameri 
can  "fall,"  high,  clear,  crystalline.  The  air  was 
like  an  elixir.  Jack's  eyes  were  for  all  this  beauty, 
—"the  vast,  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land,"  the 
line  that  drifted  in  his  thoughts,— his  own  conscious 
ness,  taken  up  into  his  contemplation,  seeming  as 
vast  and  as  unperplexed.  But  under  his  calm,  his 
happy  sadness,  that,  too,  seemed  a  part  of  the  day, 
ran,  like  the  inner  echo  to  the  air's  intoxication, 
a  stream  of  deep,  still  excitement. 

He  did  not  think  directly  of  Valerie,  but  vague 
pictures  passed,  phantom-like,  before  his  mind.  He 
saw  her  in  her  garden,  gathering  late  flowers;  he 
saw  her  reading  under  the  fringe  of  vine-leaves  and 
tendrils ;  he  saw  her  again  in  the  wintry  New  York 
of  snow,  sunlight,  white,  gold  and  blue,  or  smiling 
down  from  the  high-decked  steamer  against  a  sky 
of  frosty  rose ;  he  saw  her  on  all  possible  and  ade 
quate  backgrounds  of  the  land  he  so  loved.  But, — 
oh,  it  was  here  that  the  under-current,  the  stream  of 
excitement  seemed  to  rise,  foaming,  circling,  sub 
merging  him,  choking  him,  with  tides  of  grief  and 
desolation,— seeing  her,  too,  in  that  land  she  loved; — 
not  in  the  Surrey  garden,  no,  no,— that  was  shut  to 
her  for  ever; — but  in  some  other,  some  distant  gar 
den,  high-walled,  the  pale  gold  and  gray  of  an  au 
tumnal  sunset  over  its  purpling  bricks,  or  on  a 
flower-dappled  common  in  spring,  or  in  spring 
woods  filled  with  wild  hyacinths  and  primroses. 
How  he  could  see  her,  place  her,  over  there,  far,  far 
away,  from  his  country— and  from  him. 

It  was,  after  the  last  sharp  trot,  the  last  leisurely 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  391 

uphill  canter,  on  the  bordering,  leaf-strewn  grass  of 
the  winding  road,  where  the  white  walls  and  gray 
roof  of  the  little  house  showed  among  the  trees,  that 
all  the  undercurrent  seemed  to  center  in  a  knot  of 
suffocating  expectancy  and  pain. 

And  Valerie,  while  Jack  so  rode,  so  approached 
her,  was  fulfilling  one  of  his  visions.  She  had  spent 
the  afternoon  in  her  garden,  digging,  planting, 
"messing"  as  she  expressed  it,  very  happily  among 
her  borders,  where  late  flowers,  purple  and  white 
and  gold,  still  bloomed.  She  was  planning  all  sorts 
of  things  for  her  garden,  a  row  of  double- cherry- 
trees  to  stand  at  the  edges  of  the  woods  and  be 
symbols  of  paradise  in  spring,  with  their  deep  upon 
deep  of  miraculous  white.  Little  almond-trees,  too, 
frail  sprays  of  pink  on  a  spring  sky,  and  quince- 
trees  that  would  show  in  autumn  among  ample  fo 
liage  the  pale  gold  of  their  softly-furred  fruit.  She 
wanted  spring  flowers  to  run  back  far  into  the 
woods,  the  climbing  roses  and  honeysuckle  to  make 
summer  delicious  among  the  vines  of  the  veranda. 
The  afternoon,  full  of  such  projects,  passed  pleas 
antly,  and  when  she  came  in  and  dressed  for  her 
solitary  tea,  she  felt  pleasantly  tired.  She  walked 
up  and  down  the  drawing-room,  its  white  walls 
warm  with  the  reflections  cf  outer  sunlight,  listen 
ing  vaguely  to  the  long  trail  of  her  black  tea-gown 
behind  her,  looking  vaguely  from  the  open  windows 
at  the  purple  distances  set  in  their  nearer  waves  of 
flame. 

At  the  end  of  the  room,  before  the  austere  little 
mantelpiece,  she  paused  presently  to  look  at  herself 


392  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

in  the  austere  little  mirror  with  its  compartments  of 
old  gilt;  at  herself,  the  illuminated  white  of  the 
room  behind  her  reflection.  A  narrow  crystal  vase 
mirrored  itself  beside  her  leaning  arm,  and  its  one 
tall  rose,  set  among  green  leaves  and  russet  stems 
and  thorns,  spread  depths  of  color  near  her  cheek. 
Valerie's  eyes  went  from  her  face  to  the  rose.  The 
rose  was  fresh,  glowing,  perfect.  Her  face,  lovely 
still,  was  faded. 

She  stood  there,  leaning  beside  the  flower,  the 
fingers  of  her  supporting  hand  sunken  deep  in  the 
chestnut  masses  of  her  hair,  and  noted,  gravely, 
earnestly,  the  delicate  signs  and  seals  of  stealing 
age. 

Never,  never  again  would  her  face  be  like  the 
rose,  young,  fresh,  perfect.  And  she  herself  was 
no  longer  young ;  in  her  heart  she  knew  the  stillness, 
the  droop,  the  peace— almost  the  peace— of  softly- 
falling  petals. 

How  young  she  had  been,  how  lovely,  how  full  of 
sweetness.  That  was  the  thought  that  pierced  her 
suddenly,  the  thought  of  wasted  sweetness,  unre 
corded  beauty,  unnoted,  unloved,  all  to  go,  to  pass 
away  for  ever.  It  seemed  hardly  for  herself  she 
grieved,  but  for  the  doom  of  all  youth  and  loveli 
ness;  for  the  fleeting,  the  impermanence  of  all  life. 
The  vision  of  herself  passed  to  a  vision  of  the  other 
roses,  the  drooping,  the  doomed,  scattering  their 
petals  in  the  chill  breeze  of  coming  winter. 

"Poor  things,"  was  her  thought,— her  own  self- 
pity  had  part  only  in  its  inclusiveness,— "summer  is 
over  for  all  of  us." 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  393 

And  with  the  thought,  girlishly,  still  girlishly, 
she  hid  her  face  upon  her  arms  as  she  stood  there, 
murmuring:— "Ah,  I  hate,  I  hate  getting  old." 

A  step  at  the  door  roused  her.  She  turned  to 
see  Jack  entering. 

Jack  looked  very  nice  in  the  tans  and  russets  of 
his  riding-tweeds  and  gaiters.  The  chill  air  had 
brought  a  clear  color  to  his  cheeks ;  the  pale  gold 
of  his  hair, — one  unruly  lock,  as  usual,  over-long, 
lying  across  his  forehead,— shone  like  sunlight;  his 
gray  eyes  looked  as  deep  and  limpid  as  a  mountain 
pool. 

Valerie  was  very,  very  glad  to  see  him.  He  em 
bodied  the  elixir,  the  color,  the  freshness  of  the 
world  to-day :  and  oh  how  young — how  young — how 
fortunately,  beautifully  young  he  looked; — that  was 
the  thought  that  met  him  from  the  contrast  of  the 
mirror. 

She  gave  him  her  hands  in  welcome,  and  they  sat 
down  near  a  window  where  the  sunlight  fell  upon 
them  and  the  breeze  blew  in  upon  them,  she  on  a 
little  sofa,  among  chintz  cushions,  he  on  a  low  chair 
beside  her;  and  while  they  talked,  that  excitement, 
that  pain  and  expectancy  grew  in  Jack. 

The  summer  was  over  and,  soon,  it  must  be,  she 
would  go.  With  a  wave  of  sadness  that  sucked  him 
back  and  swept  him  forward  in  a  long,  sure  ache, 
came  the  knowledge,  deeper  than  before,  of  his  own 
desolation.  But,  sitting  there  beside  her  in  the  Oc 
tober  sunlight;  feeling,  with  the  instinct,  so  quick, 
so  sensitive  in  him,  that  it  was  in  sadness  he  had 
found  her,  the  desolation  was  n't  so  much  for  him- 


394  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

self  as  for  her,  what  she  represented  and  stood  for. 
He,  too,  seeing  her  face  with  the  blooming  rose  be 
side  it,  had  known  her  piercing  thought. 

She  was  going ;  but  in  other  senses,  too.  She  had 
begun  to  go;  and  all  the  sacrifices,  the  relinquish- 
ments,  the  acceptances  of  the  summer,  were  the  first 
steps  of  departure.  She  had  done  with  things  and 
he,  wrho  had  not  yet  done  with  them,  was  left 
behind.  Already  the  signs  of  distance  were 
upon  her — he  saw  them  as  she  had  seen  them — 
her  distance  from  the  world  of  youth,  of  hope,  of 
effort. 

A  thin  veil,  like  the  sad-sweet  haze  over  the  pur 
pling  hills,  seemed  to  waver  between  them ;  the  veil 
that,  for  all  its  melting  elusiveness,  parts  implaca 
bly  one  generation  from  another.  Its  dimness 
seemed  to  rest  on  her  bright  hair  and  to  hover  in  her 
bright  eyes;  to  soften,  as  with  a  faint  melancholy, 
the  brightness  of  her  smile.  And  it  was  as  if  he 
saw  her,  with  a  little  sigh,  unclasp  her  hands,  that 
had  clung  to  what  she  fancied  to  be  still  her  share 
of  life,— unclasp  her  hands,  look  round  her  with  a 
slight  amaze  at  the  changed  season  where  she  found 
herself,  and,  after  the  soundless  pause  of  recogni 
tion,  bend  her  head  consentingly  to  the  quiet,  ob 
literating  snows  of  age.  And  once  more  his  own 
change,  his  own  initiation  to  subtler  standards,  was 
marked  by  the  fact  that  when  the  old,  ethical  self, 
still  over-glib  with  its  assurances,  tried  to  urge  upon 
him  that  all  was  for  the  best  in  a  wonderful  world, 
ventured  to  murmur  an  axiom  or  so  as  to  the  grace, 
the  dignity,  the  added  spiritual  significance  of  old 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  395 

age,  the  new  self,  awakened  to  tragedy,  turned 
angry  eyes  upon  that  vision  of  the  rose  in  the  dev 
astated  garden,  and  once  more  muttered,  in  silence: 
-."Damn!" 

They  had  talked  of  the  past  and  of  the  coming 
marriage,  very  superficially,  in  their  outer  aspects; 
they  had  talked  of  his  summer  wanderings  and  of 
the  Pakenhams'  visit  to  Vermont.  She  had  given 
him  tea  and  she  had  told  him  of  her  plans  for  the 
winter;— she  had  given  up  the  New  York  house,  and 
had  taken  a  little  flat  near  Mrs.  Wake's,  that  she 
was  going  to  move  to  in  a  few  days  from  now.  And 
Jack  said  at  last,  feeling  that  with  the  words  he 
dived  from  shallows  into  deeps: — " And— when  are 
you  going  back?— back  to  England?" 

"Going  back?" — She  repeated  his  words  with 
vagueness. 

"Yes;  to  where  you  've  always  liked  to  live." 

"Yes;  I  liked  living  there,"  said  Valerie,  still 
with  vagueness  in  her  contemplative  "yes." 

"And  still  like  it." 

She  seemed  to  consider.  "Things  have  changed, 
you  know.  It  was  change  I  used  to  want,  I  looked 
for  it,  perhaps  mistakenly.  Now  it  has  come  of 
itself.  And  I  feel  a  great  unwillingness  to  move 
on  again." 

The  poignant  vision  of  something  bruised, 
dimmed,  listless,  was  with  him,  and  it  was  odd  to 
hear  himself  urging:— "But  in  the  meantime,  you, 
too,  have  changed.  The  whole  thing  over  here,  the 
thing  we  so  care  for,  is  n't  yours.  You  don't  really 
care  about  it  much,  if  at  all.  It  does  n't  really 


396  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

please  you.  It  gives  you  with  effort  what  you  can 
get  with  ease,  over  there,  and  it  must  jar  on  you, 
often.  We  are  young;  crude;  all  the  over-obvious 
things  that  are  always  said  of  us;  our  enthusiasms 
are  too  facile ;  our  standards  of  achievement,  in  the 
things  you  care  for,  rather  second-rate ;  oh,  you 
know  well  enough  what  I  mean.  We  are  not  crystal 
lized  yet  into  a  shape  that  's  really  comfortable  for 
a  person  like  you: — perhaps  we  never  shall  be;  per 
haps  I  hope  that  we  never  shall  be.  So  why 
should  n't  you  go  to  a  place  where  you  can  have  all 
the  things  you  like?" 

She  listened  to  him  in  silence,  with,  at  the  end, 
a  slight  smile  for  the  exactitude  of  his:  "Perhaps  I 
hope  that  we  never  shall  be;"— -and  she  paused  now 
as  if  his  portrayal  of  her  own  wants  required 
consideration.  "Perhaps,"  she  said  at  length, 
"perhaps  I  never  cared  so  much  about  all  those 
things." 

"Oh,  but  you  do,"  said  Jack  with  conviction. 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,  all  the  things  people  over 
here  go  away  so  much  to  get.  No,  I  don't  think 
so.  It  was  never  really  that.  I  don't  think"— and 
she  seemed  to  be  thinking  it  out  for  herself  as  well 
as  for  him  — "that  I  've  ever  been  so  conscious  of 
standards  —crystallizations— the  relative  values  and 
forms  of  things.  What  I  wanted  was  freedom.  Not 
that  I  was  ever  oppressed  or  ill-treated,  far  from 
it;— but  I  was  too— uncomfortable.  I  was  like  a 
bird  forced  to  live  like  a  fish,  or  perhaps  we  had 
better  say,  like  a  fish  forced  to  live  like  a  bird. 
That  was  why  I  went.  I  could  n't  breathe.  And, 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  397 

yes,  I  like  the  life  over  there.  It  's  very  easy  and 
gliding;  it  protects  yon  from  jars;  it  gives  you 
beauty  for  the  asking; — here  we  have  to  make  it  as 
a  rule.  I  like  the  people,  too,  and  their  uncon 
sciousness.  One  likes  us,  you  know,  Jack,  for  what 
is  conscious  in  us — and  it  's  so  much  that  there  's 
hardly  a  bit  of  us  that  is  n't  conscious.  We  know 
our  way  all  over  ourselves,  as  it  were,  and  can  put 
all  of  ourselves  into  the  window  if  we  want  someone 
else  to  know  us.  One  often  likes  them  for  their  un 
consciousness,  for  all  the  things  behind  the  window, 
all  the  things  they  know  nothing  at  all  about,  the 
things  that  are  instinctive,  background  things.  It 
makes  a  more  peaceful  feeling.  One  can  wander 
about  dim  rooms,  as  it  were,  and  rest  in  them;  one 
does  n't  have  to  recognize,  and  respond  so  much. 
Yes,  I  shall  miss  it  all,  in  a  great  many  ways.  But 
I  like  it  here,  too.  For  one  thing,  there  is  a  great 
deal  more  to  do." 

Jack,  in  some  bewilderment,  was  grasping  at 
clues.  One  was  that,  as  he  had  long  ago  learned  of 
her,  she  was  incapable  of  phrases,  even  when  they 
were  sincere,  incapable  of  dramatizing  herself,  even 
if  her  situation  lent  itself  to  tragic  interpretations. 
Uncomfortable?— was  that  all  that  she  found  to  say 
of  her  life,  her  suffocating  life,  among  the  fishes? 
She  could  put  it  aside  with  that.  And  as  for  the 
rest,  he  realized  suddenly,  with  a  new  illumination — 
at  what  a  late  date  it  was  for  him  to  reach  it;  he, 
who  had  thought  that  he  knew  her  so  well!— that 
she  cared  less,  in  reality,  for  all  those  "things"  lack 
ing  in  the  life  of  her  native  land  than  the  bulk  of 


398  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

her  conscious,  anxious  countrymen.  Cared  not 
enough,  his  old  self  of  judgment  and  moral  appraise 
ment  would  have  pronounced.  She  was  n't  intel 
lectual,  nor  was  she  esthetic;  that  was  the  funny 
part  of  it,  about  a  person  whose  whole  being  dif 
fused  a  sense  of  completeness  that  was  like  a  per 
fume.  Art,  culture,  a  complicated  social  life,  be 
ing  on  the  top  of  things,  as  it  were,  were  not  the  ob 
jects  of  her  concentration.  It  was  indeed  her  in 
difference  to  them,  her  independence  of  them,  that 
made  her,  for  his  wider  consciousness,  oddly  un- 
American. 

In  the  midst  of  bewilderment  and  illumination 
one  thing  stood  clear,  a  trembling  joy;  he  had  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure.  "If  you  are  not  go 
ing  away,  what  will  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know";— he  would,  once,  have  rebuked 
the  smile  with  which  she  said  it  as  indolent; — "I 
was  n't  thinking  of  anything  definite,  for  myself. 
I  '11  watch  other  people  do — you,  for  instance,  Jack. 
I  shall  spend  most  of  my  time  here  in  the  country ; 
New  York  is  so  expensive;  I  shall  garden— wait  till 
you  see  what  I  make  of  this  in  a  few  years'  time;  I 
shall  look  after  Rose  and  Eddy— at  a  tactful 
distance." 

"But  your  wider  life?  Your  many  friends,  over 
there?"  Jack  still  protested,  fearing  that  he  saw 
more  clearly  than  she  to  what  a  widow  with  a  tiny, 
crippled  fortune  was  consigning  herself  in  this  coun 
try  of  the  young  and  striving.  "You  need  gaiety, 
brilliancy,  big,  bright  vistas."  It  was  strange  to 
hear  himself  urging  his  thought  for  her  against  that 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  399 

inner  throb.  Again  she  gave  him  her  grave,  brief 
smile.  "You  forget,  Jack,  that  I  'm— cured.  I  'm 
quite  old  enough  not  to  mind  giving  up." 

The  warm,  consoling  assurance  was  with  him,  of 
her  presence  near  his  life ;  but  under  it  the  excite 
ment,  the  pain,  had  so  risen  that  he  wondered  if  she 
did  not  read  them  in  his  eyes. 

The  evening  was  growing  late ;  the  sky  had  turned 
to  a  pale,  translucent  gold,  streaked,  over  the  hori 
zon,  by  thin,  cold,  lilac-colored  clouds.  He  must 
go,  leaving  her  there,  alone,  and,  in  so  doing,  he 
would  leave  something  else  behind  him  forever.  For 
it  was  now,  as  the  veil  fell  upon  her,  as  the  evening 
fell  over  the  wide  earth,  it  was  now  or  never  that 
he  could  receive  the  last  illumination.  He  hardly 
saw  clearly  what  that  might  be;  it  wavered  like  a 
hovering  light  behind  the  mist. 

He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  a  lit 
tle  ;  pausing  to  look  from  the  windows  at  the  golden 
sky;  pausing  to  look,  now  and  then,  at  her,  sitting 
there  in  her  long,  black  dress,  vaguely  shadowed  on 
the  outer  light,  smiling,  tranquil,  yet  sad,  so  sad. 

"So,  our  summer  is  at  an  end,"  he  said,  turning 
at  last  from  the  window.  "The  air  has  a  frosty 
tang  already.  1  suppose  I  must  be  off.  I  shall 
not  see  you  again  until  New  York.  I  'm  glad— I  'm 
glad  that  you  are  to  be  there ' ' ;  and  now  he  stam 
mered  suddenly,  a  little— "more  glad  than  I  can 
say." 

"Thanks,  Jack,"  she  answered,  her  eyes  fondly 
dwelling  on  him.  "You  are  one  of  the  things  I 
would  not  like  to  leave." 


400  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

Again  he  walked  up  and  down,  and  seemed  to 
hear  the  steady  flow  of  that  still,  deep  excitement. 
Why,  above  it,  should  he  say  silly,  meaningless 
words,  that  were  like  a  bridge  thrown  over  it  to  lead 
him  from  her  ? 

"I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing,  just  one,  before 
I  go, "  he  said.  He  knew  that,  with  his  sudden  reso 
lution,  his  voice  had  changed  and,  to  quiet  himself, 
he  stood  before  her  and  put  both  hands  on  the  back 
of  a  chair  that  was  between  them.  He  could  n't  go 
on  building  that  bridge.  He  must  dare  something, 
even  if  something  else  he  must  not  dare — unless,  un 
less  she  let  him.  "I  must  tell  you  that  you  are  the 
most  enchanting  person  I  have  ever  known." 

She  looked  at  him  quietly,  though  she  was  star 
tled,  not  quite  understanding,  and  she  said  a  little 
sadly:  "Only  that,  Jack?" 

"Yes,  only  that,  for  you,  because  you  don't  need 
the  trite,  obvious  labels  that  one  affixes  to  other  peo 
ple.  You  don't  need  me  to  say  that  you  are  good 
or  true  or  brave ;— it  's  like  a  delicate  seal  that  com 
prises  and  expresses  everything, — the  trite  things 
and  the  strange,  lovely  things— when  I  say  that  you 
are  enchanting."  He  held  his  mind,  so  conscious, 
under  the  words,  of  what  he  must  not  say,  to  the  in 
tellectual  preoccupation  of  making  her  see,  at  all 
events,  just  what  the  words  he  could  say  meant. 

But  as  his  voice  rang,  tense,  vibrant  as  a  tightened 
cord  in  the  still  room,  as  his  eyes  sank  into  hers, 
Valerie  felt  in  her  own  dying  youth  the  sudden  echo 
to  all  he  dared  not  say. 

She  had  never  seen,  quick  as  she  was  to  see  the 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  401 

meaning  behind  words  and  looks.  She  suspected 
that  he,  also,  had  never  seen  it  clearly  till  now. 

Other  claims  had  dropped  from  them;  the  world 
was  gone ;  they  were  alone,  his  eyes  on  hers ;  and  be 
tween  them  was  the  magic  of  life. 

Yes,  she  had  it  still,  the  gift,  the  compelling 
charm.  His  eyes  in  their  young  strength  and  fear 
and  adoration  called  to  her  life,  and  with  a  touch, 
a  look,  she  could  bring  to  it  this  renewal  and  this 
solace.  And,  behind  her  sorrow,  her  veil,  her  re- 
linquishment,  Valerie  was  deeply  thrilled. 

The  thrill  went  through  her,  but  even  while  she 
knew  it,  it  hardly  moved  her.  No;  the  relinquish- 
ment  had  been  too  deep.  She  had  lost  forever,  in 
losing  the  other.  That  had  been  to  turn  her  back  on 
life,  or,  rather,  to  see  it  turn  its  back  on  her,  for 
ever.  Not  without  an  ugly  crash  of  inner,  twisted 
discord  could  she  step  once  more  from  the  place  of 
snow,  or  hold  out  her  hand  to  love. 

All  his  life  was  before  him,  but  for  her — ;  for  her 
It  was  finished.  And  as  she  mastered  the  thrill,  as 
she  turned  from  the  vision  of  what  his  eyes  besought 
and  promised,  a  flow  of  pity,  pity  for  his  youth  and 
pain  and  for  all  the  long  way  he  was  yet  to  go,  filled 
her,  bringing  peace,  even  while  the  sweetness  of  the 
unsought,  undreamed  of  offering  made  her  smile 
again,  a  trembling  smile. 

' '  Dear  Jack,  thank  you, ' '  she  said. 

Suddenly,  before  her  smile,  her  look,  he  flushed 
deeply,  taking  from  her  eyes  what  his  own  full 
meaning  had  been.  Already  it  was  in  the  past,  the 
still-born  hope ;  it  was  dead  before  he  gazed  upon  it ; 

26 


402  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

but  he  must  hear  the  death-warrant  from  her  lips, 
it  was  not  enough  to  see  it,  so  gentle,  so  pitiful,  so 
loving,  in  her  eyes,  and  he  heard  himself  stammer 
ing:— "You— you  have  n't  anything  else  you  can 
say  to  me  ? " 

She  had  found  her  answer  in  a  moment,  and  now 
indeed  she  was  at  the  helm,  steering  them  both  past 
white  shores,  set  in  such  depths  of  magical  blue, 
white  shores  where  sirens  sang.  Never  could  they 
land  there,  never  listen  to  the  song.  And  already  she 
seemed  to  hear  it,  as  if  from  a  far  distance,  ringing, 
sharp  and  strange  with  the  swiftness  of  their  flight, 
as  she  replied :  ' '  Nothing  else,  dear  Jack,  except  that 
I  wish  you  were  my  son." 

The  enchanted  island  had  sunk  below  the  hori 
zon.  They  were  landed,  and  on  the  safest,  sanest, 
shores.  She  knew  that  she  had  achieved  her  own 
place,  and  that  from  it,  secure,  above  him,  the  veil 
between  them,  her  smile  was  the  smile  of  motherhood. 
To  smile  so  was  to  put  before  him  finally  the  fact 
that  her  enchantment  contradicted  and  helplessly 
lured  him  to  forget.  She  would  never  forget  it  now, 
nor  could  he.  She  was  Imogen's  mother,  and  she 
was  old  enough  to  be  his. 

From  her  smile,  her  eyes,  common-sense  flooded 
Jack,  kind,  yet  stinging,  too,  savoring  of  a  rescue 
from  some  hidden  danger.— not  his— not  his— his 
was  none  of  the  common-sense, — but  hers.  He  might, 
had  she  let  him,  have  so  dislocated  her  life. 

He  was  scarlet,  stammering.  He  knew  that  he 
hid  nothing  from  her  now,  that  he  did  n't  want  or 
need  to  hide  anything.  Those  benign,  maternal  eyes 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  403 

would  understand.  And  he  smiled,  too,  but  also 
with  a  trembling  smile,  as  he  reached  out  to  her 
hand,  holding  it  tightly  and  saying,  gazing  at  her: — 
' '  I  love  you  so. ' ' 

Her  hand  held  his,  in  farewell  now,  but  her  look 
up  at  him  promised  everything,  everything  for  the 
future,— except  the  one  now  shrouded  thing.  "And 
I  love  you,  dear  Jack,"  she  said.  "You  have  taken 
the  place  of— almost  everything." 

And  then,  for  she  saw  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  and 
knew  that  his  heart  was  bleeding,  not  for  himself 
alone,  she  rose  and  took  his  head  between  her  hands, 
and,  like  a  mother,  kissed  him  above  his  eyes. 

WHEN  he  had  left  her,— and  they  said  no  further 
word, — Valerie  did  not  again  relapse  into  a  de 
spondent  attitude. 

The  sky  was  like  a  deep  rose,  soft,  dim,  dying,  and 
the  color  of  the  afterglow  filled  the  room. 

Standing  at  the  window  she  breathed  in  the  keen, 
sweet  air,  and  looked  from  the  dying  day  down  to 
her  garden. 

She  had  watched  Jack  disappear  among  the  trees, 
waving  to  him,  and  her  heart  followed  his  aching 
heart  with  comprehending  pity.  But,  from  her  con 
quest  of  the  thrill,  a  clear,  contemplative  insight 
was  left  with  her,  so  that,  looking  out  over  the  lives 
she  was  to  watch,  she  felt  herself,  for  all  her  sadness, 
a  merry,  if  a  serious  fate,  mingling  the  threads  of 
others'  fortunes  with  a  benignant  hand. 

Imogen's  threads  had  snapped  off  very  sharply. 
Imogen  would  be  the  better  pleased  that  the  Surrey 


404  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED 

cottage  should  know  her  no  more.  The  pang  for 
the  wrecking  of  all  maternal  hope  passed  strangely 
into  a  deeper  pang  for  all  that  the  Surrey  cot 
tage  stood  for  in  her  life,  all  the  things  that  she 
had  left  to  come  to  Imogen.  She  remembered. 
And,  for  a  moment,  the  old  vortex  of  whirling 
anguish  almost  engulfed  her.  Only  long  years 
could  deaden  the  pang  of  that  parting.  She  would 
not  dwell  on  that.  Eddy  and  Rose;  to  turn  to 
them  was  to  feel  almost  gay.  Jack  and  Mary;  — 
yes,  on  these  last  names  her  thoughts  lingered  and 
her  gaze  for  them  held  tender  presages.  That 
must  be. 

Jack  would  not  know  how  her  maternal  solicitude 
was  to  encompass  him  and  mold  his  way.  If  the 
benignant  fate  saw  clearly,  Jack  and  Mary  were  to 
marry.  Strange  that  it  should  not  be  from  any 
thing  of  her  own  that  the  deepest  call  upon  her  fos 
tering  tenderness  came.  She  was  n't  needed  by 
anything  of  her  own.  This  was  the  tragedy  of  her 
life  that,  more  than  youth  passed  and  love  re 
nounced,  seemed  to  drift  snows  upon  her. 

But,  beyond  the  personal  pang  and  failure,  she 
could  look  down  at  her  garden  and  out  at  the  quiet, 
evening  vistas.  The  very  flowers  seemed  to  smile 
gentle  promises  to  her,  and  to  murmur  that,  after 
all,  rather  than  bitterness,  failure  was  to  bring 
humble  peace. 

Leaning  her  head  against  the  wrindow,  where 
in  the  breeze  the  curtain  softly  flapped,  she  looked 
out  at  the  tranquil  twilight,  contented  to  be  sad. 


A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED  405 

"I  will  have  friends  with  me,"  she  said  to  her 
self;  "I  will  garden  and  learn  a  new  language.  I 
will  read  a  great  many  books."  And,  with  a  sense 
of  happy  daring,  not  rebuked  by  reason,  she  could 
add,  thinking  of  the  mingled  threads:— "I  will  have 
them  often  here  to  stay  with  me,  and,  perhaps,  they 
will  let  me  spoil  the  babies." 


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